


The Little Prince

by LunaStorm



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:10:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2576021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStorm/pseuds/LunaStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a world in dire need, a Child of Fate to guide and guard, and many wondrous things come true; and with the warmth of the Lion's breath, everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lily

_MAT 7:14 “For the gate is narrow and the way is hard  
that leads to life, and those who find it are few.”_

 

The woman hurried in the cold, October night, trusting the darkness to shelter her movements.

Close to her heart she clutched her precious baby, bundled up in his warmest winter clothes and wrapped in her cloak. Even Summer had been colder this year, due to the war; Autumn was positively chilly, and in more than just the physical sense.

The fourteen months old was fortunately fast asleep, safely held in his mother’s loving embrace, blissfully unaware of her fear.

She hugged him tightly as she sidestepped a puddle.

It was risky, she knew, moving around like this. The war was upon them, in all its harshness, and it was dangerous business going out one’s door.

Especially with a child.

Especially with _this_ child.

She shuddered at the thought of the Prophecy looming on his little sweet head.

She shouldn’t have risked him like this.

But Bathilda was a dear friend, forever lending a helping hand to the younger woman and doting upon little Harry, and she’d needed help, pneumonia at her old age was not to be taken lightly, so Lily had gone.

Hopefully James wouldn’t be too upset when he came back from his mission.

Hopefully James would come back from his mission, period: upset or not, that was all that mattered to her.

Her steps slowed and faltered as she passed before Godric’s Hollow’s church.

It was illuminated from the inside, the stained glass windows glowing in the dark like jewels and Lily couldn’t help thinking that this light, too, was more than just physical: like the cold was stronger because of her dread, so the yellow warmth was more welcoming because of the surrounding bleakness.

It beckoned to her, but she hesitated.

She hadn’t set foot in a church in years. Witches weren’t welcome there, Petunia had taken great delight in telling her. Witches were evil. _Thou shalt not suffer a Witch to live_ , it was in the Bible.

For the first time, she questioned this truth.

Was the Lord’s mercy not infinite?

Was her magic truly evil?

Was it not, ultimately, His gift, as were all things?

Would He truly condemn her without appeal for something she didn’t choose, something she couldn’t help?

Or was it how she used her gift that mattered?

She slowed to a halt and little Harry fussed a bit in his sleep.

Was her beautiful baby condemned already? Through no fault of his, damned without appeal?

For the first time in years, she wondered.

If she were to lead her beloved child to the Lord, would the little one be turned away?

Her world, she knew, had stopped asking these questions far too long ago; but she couldn’t feign indifference, not tonight.

She should leave.

It was late, and it was dangerous. She should shrug these unwanted questions aside. They weren’t sensible. The war was taking a toll on her, that was all. Fear was pushing her to seek comfort where she couldn’t find it.

She should leave.

And perhaps, in another world, in another story, she did leave, and put all thoughts of Him from her mind, and her tale and her child’s tale unfolded very differently.

But why wonder about it at all?

It is not for us to know what would have happened. Nobody is ever told that.

But anyone can find out what _will_ happen; for in that cold October night, Lily Potter did, indeed, step into that church, and sought the help of He who alone can bring every comfort, and asked for protection for her baby from the only source that knows all, can all.

And if she thought that the faint lion roar reverberating through her soul so reassuringly was a link to her school House, and the family she’d found there, He didn’t mind.


	2. Aslan

_JOB 37:5 God's voice thunders in marvellous ways;  
he does great things beyond our understanding._

For so long He had hoped and waited for His lost children to remember Him, to return to Him.

What the folly of other men had destroyed, the precious trust that should have stayed strong even through those cruel, insensate trials, had never been restored.

For so long He had mourned the many who were lost to Him, and watched as they went on with their life without seeking His comfort, His guidance, His love.

But now, now one daughter of that people had finally listened to His call, her love for her child driving her, more powerful than even she could comprehend.

And the child was a Child of Fate… if he showed the way, many would follow.

Yes, Lily Potter’s prayers would be answered, more thoroughly than she expected them to: He would protect and guide her child, so that her child, in turn, could protect and guide others, leading them further up and further in.

He paced, and considered.

Worlds would have to change… events would have to unfold unexpectedly… time would have to be reworked…

But why should it not?

The need was great and so was the gain.

The big paws treaded carefully through Time and Space, watching the changes unfold. With the warmth of the Lion’s breath, everything changed…

Four children didn’t think to hold each other’s hands in a certain train station and so, only the eldest Daughter of Eve was whisked away to answer her Horn’s call…

Two parents chose to take their younger son on a certain trip to America, leaving their eldest to his studies and the company of a good Professor, and their only remaining daughter in a certain house in Cambridge, where the girl and her cousin discovered the painting of the Dawn Treader…

A young man who had once been King met a red-headed girl at his cousin’s and when they held hands, a Lion roar whisked them away to help a kidnapped Prince in need…

But it was the fourth child He was walking towards now, the Redeemed, the Just, who knew, had guessed, where his siblings had been called to, and had suffered patiently his loss, silently bearing his abandonment, believing his exclusion deserved because of his past mistakes…

“Edmund,” He called softly, and smiled as the young King raised hope-filled eyes.


	3. Edmund

 

_MAT 18:5 "And whoever welcomes a little child  
like this in my name welcomes me._

 

Five years. Five long, hard years since two Kings and two Queens had stumbled out of a wardrobe in a spare room and found themselves unremarkable children once more.

Five hard, desolate years, and Edmund found it increasingly difficult to stay true to his Narnian past.

Every day in grey, un-chivalrous England brought him further from his real self; every day as an average teenager, King Edmund the Just died a bit more.

An now, now that he’d been left alone… he wasn’t sure he could go on as he knew he should.

When Susan had disappeared from that station, barely a year after they’d been exiled from their beloved Land, he had known at once that she’d been called back Home. The feeling of magic had been unmistakable. Oh, if only they’d thought of holding hands… maybe then they would all have gone…

It was no use wishing for what hadn’t been, however.

She had gone, and they’d been left to wonder: wonder why she’d been the one to go, wonder where and how and why she’d been called away, wonder if she’d ever be back, wonder, most of all, when – _if_ – their turn would come.

They had been amazed to find the world around them seemed convinced that Susan had lost her life in the last of the bombings. They guessed that meant she wasn’t coming back. Despite missing her terribly, they didn’t desire her return: they would have much preferred to join her. Until that became possible, they simply wished the Gentle Queen good luck and joy where she was needed, doing their best to quench their unbecoming jealousy and be happy that one of them at least had been granted what they all so longed for.

And they waited for their turn, as patiently as they were able to.

Lucy, bless her joyful soul, had believed firmly right from the start that they would someday ‘go back Home’ and Susan’s leaving had only been a further confirmation for her. Her simple faith had stayed strong all along, always, despite how hard it had been to go from revered, admired, _adult_ Queen to coddled, stifled and generally overlooked child. She had cried herself to sleep countless times, but she could still speak of Aslan with joy and love and the hope that ‘today would be the day’.

She delighted in talking almost non-stop of the friends they’d left behind, of the beautiful places they all missed so badly, of the dances and feasts and the hundred little things of their daily life at Cair Paravel, and most of all of Aslan. She would happily tell her ‘tales’ to the children in their neighbourhoods and to the adults who listened indulgently and, of course, to her siblings.

Edmund would listen to Lucy’s reminiscences, and with a sad, wistful smile, gladly add his own. He was not as optimist as his younger sister however, nor was Peter, who had the most difficulties adapting back to life in England and found it harder than his younger siblings to accept and be happy for Susan’s lucky fate when he missed his role and his land so badly. It was not easy to be an exiled King, Edmund could attest to that, but Peter seemed to be taking it even worse than he.

Then their carefree, golden-haired sister had vanished one day while she was visiting their relatives in Cambridge. He’d been in America with his parents at the time and had received in quick succession the telegram from his Aunt announcing her ‘unfortunate, inexplicable, tragic death’ and a letter from Peter explaining the truth. Both his brother and he had taken this as a hopeful sign. One day, their turn would come as well.

His parents and he had hurried back for the ‘funeral’, of course, and he’d sought out his cousin Eustace as soon as he could, to hear the whole tale from the lips of one who had lived it.

Despite Peter’s warning, he’d almost fallen over in shock at the transformation the other boy had undergone. Gone was the annoying brat who liked bossing and bullying and had no real friends. In his place stood a loyal and brave Knight, bowing courteously to him and apologizing for his past behaviour!

Edmund had listened avidly as Eustace told him a wondrous tale of faraway seas and prodigies, narrating with enthusiasm of the Voyage of the Dawn Treader; of his friend, the brave Reepeecheep; of mysterious islands, dream-like and nightmarish; of the sweet seawater where white lilies grew; of how Aslan had Undragoned him, and of the foes and dangers they had faced…

He’d wondered about the strange glint Eustace’s eyes held when he mentioned only in passing ‘an adventure on the island of a wizard’, promising to tell ‘more at some other time’; but he hadn’t given it much thought. There was so much to hear about!

Edmund had laughed and cried in joy and in sorrow hearing that his sisters were safe and happy. He couldn’t believe the news about Susan! Eustace couldn’t have known how it hurt him to hear that his sister was _married_ and he would never meet her consort, never know the man who, after so many unworthy suitors, had finally captured her gentle heart… And Lucy, Lucy had finally had the chance to explore the Glittering Eastern Sea as she so often had dreamed of doing and he not only wasn’t there with her but wouldn’t hear her tales either…

Eustace had also sought counsel from him and Peter, about what to make of the strange urge to write all about his experience that he’d felt since he’d been back.

Edmund had encouraged him to do so, and patiently recollected all of the Narnian history he could remember, and told him much about his own reign, that he might write all that as well; Eustace was on his way to become an amazing author and Edmund could almost hear the echo of a faint roar whenever he read his manuscripts aloud.

He also regularly made Edmund chuckle in sorrowful amusement when he insisted on addressing the envelopes of his letters to ‘Edmund Pevensie’, but the letter themselves to ‘King Edmund the Just’. He was more than glad to answer in kind, for he understood it was his cousin’s way to keep ‘Eustace the Undragoned, Dawn Treader’ alive in spirit.

But he could find little solace even in his ever-growing friendship with Eustace because by then, Peter too was gone, vanished under Edmund’s very eyes at Lucy’s ‘funeral’ of all things, and a completely unrelated girl had been whisked away with him instead of Edmund.

He barely even remembered her name: Jill, he thought, or June… Eustace had introduced her as a classmate from his school who’d come to his home to work on an assigned summer project and met and liked Lucy, with whom she was developing a good friendship before the ‘accident’. It was hard to fight the wave of jealousy and regret her leaving with Peter generated in him.

With his brother gone, Edmund had realized he was alone.

For a while, he had still hoped, he had still believed. He no longer did, despite Eustace trying to cheer him up, saying with that same secret glint in his eyes that it was only a matter of time.

Inevitably he had started to doubt, and now he no longer waited with hope for a return that he knew wouldn’t happen. And he tried with all his might to stamp down the hurt, the resentment, the pain and the longing, and just be grateful for what had been rather than wanting more.

It wasn’t easy, but he did his best.

And while he no longer spoke of Aslan, because he couldn’t bear it, he still tried to keep Him in his mind and near his heart, doing what he could to act in His name in a world where occasions seemed scarce.

He remembered, too.

Every night, he would think back on his time in Narnia. Every night he would think of his siblings, and love them and wonder and miss them terribly. It was so hard to be the one left back…

And now, suddenly, the beloved voice he had started to think he would never hear again was calling him.

“Emund!”

He raised hopeful eyes to the longed for Lion. “Aslan?”

“Come, Dear One. We have a long journey to go. You must ride on me.” And he crouched down.

Wide-eyed with amazement, Edmund climbed onto his warm, golden back, holding on tightly to his mane, quivering with excitement.

And with a great heave He rose underneath him and then shot off, faster than any horse could go, running in the darkness, until the world was just a blur.

That ride was perhaps the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to Edmund.

He was amazed at the almost noiseless padding of the great paws and the soft roughness of golden fur, at the lush mane flying back in the wind and at how they were going about twice as fast as the fastest racehorse. The great Lion never grew tired, never missed his footing, never hesitated, threading His way with perfect skill between tree trunks, jumping over bush and briar and streams.

“Where are we going?” Edmund asked breathlessly.

“Beyond and through,” was the answer.

And Edmund could only watch in amazement as Aslan ran not on anything resembling a road, but right across all sorts of landscapes, past roaring waterfalls and mossy rocks and echoing caverns, up windy slopes and down again into wild valleys and then He wasn’t even running on some sort of ground anymore, but mere clouds, plunging into the darkness, scenes and cities and people speeding by, at first familiar, then wildly different, then familiar again yet somewhat not…

Then they were running through a dense forest with many pools of water and Edmund was hit by a sudden realization.

“Aslan, are we moving through different worlds?” he ventured, remembering Professor Diggory’s tales of Charn and of the ponds that led to other worlds and wondering if this might be that very place.

“We are,” answered the Lion, “and through different times as well.”

“Times?” asked Edmund disbelievingly, but even as he said it he realized that it made sense: the Professor had explained to them immediately after Lucy had gone to Narnia briefly for the first time, and more concretely when they’d been exiled, that “the other world has a separate time of its own; so that however long you stay there it would never take up any of our time”.

A logical consequence would be the possibility of passing from one world to another at different points in time; all the same, the mere idea made him dizzy!

At last they started to slow down and the blur of scenes started to make more sense.

Aslan slowed almost – but not quite – to a stop in a quaint little village at night; Edmund could see rows of front porches, little twisting lanes and finally the heart of the village, a small square with several shops, a post office, a pub and a little church.

It was a wet and windy night and he spotted two children dressed as pumpkins waddling across the square, which made him blink in surprise. Soon however his attention was captured by a dark figure gliding noiselessly along the pavement, making the dead leaves slither in its wake, a sense of malevolence and power to it, the likes of which he hadn’t felt in years… his breath caught in fear when a little boy got too close to the figure and then relief when the child ran away unscathed…

“That is the Dark Lord Voldemort,” came Aslan’s quiet and sad voice. “He is the same kind of magician the White Witch used to be.”

Edmund shivered, chilled to the bone. He would always have nightmare of the Witch. To think there were others like her…

And now his destination – and theirs – was in sight at last, a little house behind a dark hedge: through the lit window Edmund could see a happy family, a small black-haired boy in his blue pyjamas giggling at the antics of a tall black-haired man with glasses that must have been his father, a woman with long dark-red hair falling over her face saying words he could not hear as the father handed her the child and stretched, yawning...

The gate creaked a little, calling his attention back to the evil magician, and suddenly Edmund knew what was about to happen; but his cry of warning went unheard and he clenched his hands in helpless rage, realizing he couldn’t stop the monster…

Green light filled the cramped hallway and Aslan took him with a great leap up to the nursery’s window, where he could hear the woman screaming, trapped, attempting in vain to barricade herself in…

Then the monster forced the door open and she stood, beautiful and desperate, her arms thrown wide to shield her son in the crib behind her…

Edmund could only watch sadly as the brave woman begged the monster to spare her child, to take her instead, but Aslan was already moving on.

“She will not live past this night,” He said sadly.

“Can you not save her?” asked Edmund impulsively. “Why does she have to die?”

“Edmund,” asked the Lion severely, “I am telling you your story, not hers. No one is told any story but their own."

Then He shook His head and spoke in a lighter voice. “There is reason to be merry, however, for her child has survived.”

Edmund smiled at that. “Are we going to help him, then?”

“We are.”

Aslan jumped into the darkness and then slowed again, and now Edmund could see, clearly enough despite the nightly darkness, neat hedges and rows of identical small houses laying silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen.

They came to a stop at last in front of Number 4.

“Is the child here?” asked Edmund as he climbed down the Lion’s back, instinctively keeping his voice low.

There was no answer and he glanced sideways to the great, beloved shape.

Aslan looked incommensurably sad. Then He gave a long sigh and said: “He is here, yes. What you saw during our run happened six weeks ago and he has been here ever since. Let us go in.”

And He moved, slowly and sadly, His tail and His head hung low. Edmund was deeply affected by His mood, feeling uncomfortable and frightened and sad and lonely as he followed Him inside, not even noticing that they hadn’t bothered with opening the door at all.

The inside was plain and unimaginative, a simple hallway with closed doors and a staircase Edmund automatically made his way to, assuming the boy would be asleep at this time of night; he’d barely climbed two steps before he realized that Aslan had instead gone further down the hall, and was now standing before the door of the cupboard under the stairs, looking far too large for the unadorned space around Him.

Frowning in confusion, Edmund went back to join Him.

“Aslan?...”

The sad, deep eyes turned to meet his. “Open the door, Edmund.”

He obeyed and a dismayed, horrified cry burst from his lips. The child was sleeping fretfully on a filthy makeshift cot, looking gaunt and feverish.

Before he even realized it, Edmund had fallen to his knees in the cupboard’s doorway and was gathering the poor child in his arms, cradling him gently, tearing the thin, dirty cloth from him as quickly and viciously as he dared. The boy’s skin was marred with angry red rashes.

“Oh, Aslan! I wish Lucy was here with her cordial. Can you help him? Can you heal him?”

He raised the child to the Lion, offering Him and begging for Him in the same gesture.

Aslan breathed on the baby gently and it was like a fresh, sweet breeze, like a warm, soft blanket, like a reassuring hug. The child looked instantly much better, emerald green eyes blinking up at the two of them sleepily. He giggled and held a tiny hand out to the huge Lion, who smiled tenderly, nuzzling it.

Then His eyes met Edmund’s, piercing him, looking into his very soul.

“I will help him, but how I shall go about doing so, depends on you.”

“Me?” asked Edmund puzzled.

“This is a Child of Fate… much like you and your siblings were.”

It took a moment for Edmund to understand. “A Prophecy?”

“Yes. He will need guidance, support, love. Will you give them to him?”

Edmund gaped, completely overwhelmed: to care for the child himself?

He was too young, too inexperienced – it’s not like there had been children at Court! Perhaps, if he were still in Narnia, with his siblings at his side – Susan, he was sure, would have been a wonderful mum, she’d mothered all of them and the Kingdom at large, and Peter would have known how to raise him properly, with the right values and everything, he didn’t have Edmund’s darkness inside, and Lucy, Lucy would have made sure the child had fun and would have taught him to have faith – but here in England? He couldn’t – how could he – it was beyond his ability. He didn’t even have Advisors here, his parents, while beloved, were virtual strangers – they had missed too much of his life, of what made him _him_ – he was too isolated, too lonely; Lion’s mane, his best friends – nay, his only friends – were an old eccentric Professor and his own cousin, and neither had any experience with children. He might not even be allowed to keep the child, there was such a thing as social services he knew, and he wasn’t truly related to the little one; and he was too young anyway, and it was such a monumental task…

But in the end none of that mattered, the once again sleeping child already held his heart in his tiny hands.

He stared into Aslan’s deep eyes, looking for the warmth and comfort and love that were always to be found there, and willed his own gaze to convey all the sincerity of his feelings and his determination to overcome his fears along with the obstacles the world would no doubt throw at him.

“I will.”

“Will you care for him? Protect him? Love him?” The Great Lion was standing above him, His eyes very bright, His limbs quivering, lashing Himself with His tail, and all the sadness had vanished from Him.

“As if he were my son,” said Edmund – and meant every word.

“Then that is what he shall be, Son of Adam!”

And Edmund, stunned and fascinated, felt a current of power pour on him and pool in the child, and then rush back, and they were bonded, and it felt more right than words could ever say. He gazed in wonder at the beautiful toddler that turned in his sleep, clutching trustingly at his shirt with a tiny hand.

_His son_.

He didn’t notice that Aslan had vanished, leaving behind a mere whisper: “You did well, Dear One…”

He did, however, notice the light suddenly coming from the inside of the cupboard. Puzzled, he stepped inside only to find himself on the edges of a wooded area he would recognize under any circumstances: his own Western Woods.

He was in Narnia once more!

With a small, genuine smile, he gazed down to the child – his son! – who, he had no doubt, was the reason he was being allowed back.

“I’ll take good care of you, my little one.”

 


	4. Oreius

 

_"But now, Lord, what do I look for?  
My hope is in you." - Psalm 39:7_

 

 

General Oreius of Narnia woke troubled and went through his morning with a frown on his face and an increasing sense of urgency.

The dream had been so real.

He knew, deep down inside, that it had been a message from the Great Lion. He was utterly convinced of this, and didn’t waste any time in making the Council aware.

The Council was the group of Narnians who had tried, as best they could, to keep their beloved country together and running after the disappearance of the Four Monarchs. They hadn’t been very successful; but they had done their best, with some help from the Princes of Archenland, Cor and Corin.

Oreius scanned quickly the reunited Council Members, who turned from their discussion to watch his hurried entry.

Tahlia, the rather young Talking Leopard who had been Chief of Security of Cair Paravel, strong and lean and always level-headed.

Tumnus the faun, the Valliant Queen’s best friend and chamberlain of Cair Paravel.

Alden the Stag, Gunarbrik the Red Dwarf and Sigra the Wolf, the Monarchs’ most trusted advisors and the most prominent members of the Narnian High Court of Justice.

Rowan the Falcon, the Head of Diplomacy in the absence of the Monarchs, and probably the only reason Calormen or the Islands hadn’t yet invaded them, despite their precarious situation.

Arethil, Queen Susan’s closest confidant as well as the representative of the nymphs.

Lord Peridan, who’d moved to Narnia from Archenland years before and had been a faithful and trustworthy companion to the Monarchs in many a crisis; and although Oreius tried not to think on it, his soldier’s nature forced him to face the worst case scenario, and admit, to himself at least, that Peridan would also be a good choice for the throne if they ever lost hope in the Four’s return.

And last but not least, himself, the High General of their army and Lord Protector of Narnia in the absence of their rightful sovereigns, and the oldest and – in his opinion at least – wisest member of the Council.

“Tonight I dreamt of the Lion,” he announced gravely without delay, the seriousness and reverence in his voice enough to catch the others’ undivided attention.

“What happened in the dream?” asked Tumnus quietly. Oreius still found it disconcerting that the once exuberant faun was now so quiet, but Tumnus hadn’t smiled or laughed or danced at all since Queen Lucy’s disappearance.

“He was pacing in the Western Woods, near the waterfall known as the Naiad’s Jump, and was calling for me to join Him.”

He hesitated briefly, but saw so different reactions to his words that he knew he had to clarify.

“I believe I should go there,” a breath, “immediately.”

As he had expected, their reactions were mixed, with Alden and Gunarbrick being rather vocal in wanting him to be looked at by the Palace Healer and Arethil instead reprimanding him for still being here; but he was neither an impatient foal to rush into things without pause, nor an easily swayed dimwit to ignore a call from Aslan. Whether or not the Council agreed, he would go; but he would make sure they were all aware of his absence and ready to handle things without him if needed.

The journey up the Great River to Chippingford, despite not taking him as much time as it would have someone without military training, or with less legs, was still several hours long; it was almost dark as he left the town and started making his way through the deep western forest.

As he approached the Naiad’s Jump, letting the gentle roar of the waterfall guide him in the silvery moonlight, he slowed down, looking around for a sign of Aslan.

It was not the golden mane of the Great Lion who caught his attention and stole his breath, however: as soon as he stepped in the clearing where the waterfall plunged into a clear pool, he spotted a dark silhouette – a _humanoid_ silhouette – plummeting from the ravine with a sharp cry, a dark bundle clutched protectively to their chest.

Immediately, the General moved to help the falling human, reasoning out that it was probably some Archenlander, though he couldn’t imagine what he would be doing so far from his land, and wondering briefly if Aslan’s message might have been meant to get him here in time to save the man.

It was a few long, struggling minutes before the Centaur managed to drag the Human safely to the shallow edges of the pond and he realized with surprise that the bundle, still frantically held in the other’s arms, was fidgeting and crying in fear. An Animal, perhaps?

But no, the stunned General soon saw a little human head peek jerkily out of the tangled clothes: a human child!

A moment later his surprise reached a whole new level, when the man, still coughing and struggling for breath, somehow managed to get himself seated more or less upright, hugging the child protectively, and raised his head to look at his saviour: although younger than the last time Oreius had seen him, there was no mistaking those eyes, or those features.

“King Edmund!” he breathed in shock, in joy and wonder, in amazed hope.

“O-oreius…” The King’s voice was hoarse and he coughed some more water out. “H-help…” he seemed panicked and the Centaur did his best to reassure him.

“My King, you’re safe now…”

“My son!...” King Edmund was frantic, cuddling the toddler carefully in his arms, but apparently unable to muster enough coherence to check him over properly, and Oreius reeled in further shock at the revelation. A Prince!

The child had calmed down a bit and was sniffing, clutching at his father’s clothes for all his worth.

Oreius was too stunned to say anything, but he had so many questions…

A moment later, King Edmund fainted dead away in his arms, giving him a whole new set of worries.

Soon however he had the King safely laid to rest under the branches of a majestic tree, and a couple Naiads had come out of the Fall to help him with the child, leaving him somewhat free to conjecture, as he kept guard: he was puzzled about why the King looked several years younger than he should; he speculated why he had been returned to them now – for as joyful an occasion as this was, he worried that it might herald a time of troubles for their beloved country; he pondered whether the other Monarchs were near as well; he wondered who the Lady who had gained the Just’s affection was, if she was here at all.

He contemplated the little Prince a lot, too.

The toddler was at first very upset at his father’s stillness and Oreius’ warrior mentality led him instantly to worry whether the baby had witnessed death before. He might be wrong… but if he wasn’t… that didn’t bode well for whoever his mother was, seeing as she was nowhere to be found.

Still, the little one was curious and bright and had soon been distracted by the beautiful water-ladies, who in turn where cooing at the lovely baby and delighted in making him giggle with their water tricks, laughing with him when he tried to grasp the shiny drops they were sending in graceful arcs through the night air.

The child didn’t seem to be able to talk much, but he clearly understood speech rather well, and when he grew tired and started fussing, he didn’t object too much to being put to sleep cuddled up to his father; he merely waved his tiny hand a bit and bid them all ‘nightie-night’ with his soft, high-pitched voice.

Oreius stifled a fond smile. Great warriors did not smile at cute babies, but, well…

The Naiads chattered softly away before leaving, promising to spread the word about the night’s happenings.

Oreius didn’t object, nor did he stop the Talking Owls who assured him that they would ‘announce the joyous news’. It would be good for everyone to hear of the King’s return as soon as possible.

The past few years had been… hard. Hopefully, the other Monarchs weren’t far either, but even if it was just King Edmund, the land could take a relieved breath at last, now that the Just King was back.

And the King had a Son!

Oreius wondered for an instant how the child would be received at the Cair. Then he snorted at his own foolishness. What a silly question! Everybody would love the little Prince on sight!

As Oreius knew it would, the land was soon in an uproar, all sorts of Narnians coming to the woods to reverently watch the sleeping King and his toddler son.

The child awakened at the first signs of dawn and Oreius thanked his lucky star that a motherly Elk had talked two Dwarves into bringing some milk with a dollop of honey, for he’d quite forgotten the need for breakfast; the little Prince gulped the sweetened drink down with glee, much to the smug satisfaction of the Elk.

Soon the child was happily playing with some chatty Squirrels, under the watchful eyes of the returned Naiads, while everybody came and cooed at him. Already wild stories were spreading, speculating on everything from the little Prince’s age to his Lady Mother’s favourite colour.

Oreius was content to keep watch.

Finally, the King roused from his slumber and the gathered Animals and Creatures had the joy to see their love and happiness at his return reflected tenfold in their Liege’s eyes.

King Edmund however only took the time to hug his child, who squealed happily when his father tickled him to disguise the fact that he was carefully checking him over; then he turned to his General with a pointed “How fares Narnia, Oreius?”

And the Centaur’s numerous questions about the circumstances of the King’s auspicious return and the events that brought a Prince to Narnia had to wait, in favour of laying their Liege’s concerns to rest about the state of the country, and sating his caring curiosity about the friends he had dearly missed.

Later, as they found themselves on the road to Cair Paravel, travelling slowly, for Oreius was mindful of the King’s injury (and because so many Narnians were still coming up to them, to greet the King and gawk at the Prince and chat away like a bunch of excited Squirrels and walk with them for a while), the General managed to discreetly question his King on a few matters.

King Edmund was sad in telling him he didn’t know exactly where his siblings were. “They have their path to walk, as have we all; and if Aslan was here, he’d probably tell us that what’s happening to them is part of their story, and not ours,” he said with a small smile.

To the Centaur, that was enough.

The weirdest reaction he had however was when he asked for the little Prince’s name.

The King looked shocked for an instant, and a little worried, and ruefully amused, as if he didn’t know and only just realized it; Oreius put it down to the concussion his Liege had suffered. The Monarch recovered quickly, however, and said simply: “Leo.”

Oreius nodded approvingly: in honour of the Great Lion, no doubt… very appropriate.

He couldn’t wait to see the Council’s faces when they made it back to Cair Paravel!


	5. Nanny Melly

 

_LUC 1:80_ _“The child grew  
and became strong in spirit”_

 

 

Mellivorina Hardbiter was a Badger and Badgers, as you know, are patient and loyal, even more so than other Beasts.

So she was among the few that weren’t at all surprised when the Just King returned to them, for she had always thought he would, that it was only a matter of time, and she had waited patiently for him; and if it had taken a thousand years, her children’s children would have waited with the same faith and patience until his return, for Badgers don’t change, and they don’t forget.

But even if she wasn’t surprised, she _was_ happy, very much so; and she was excited at the news of a Human cub, a little Prince, who would no doubt fill their King and the country whole with joy, for that was what cubs do: she should know, she’d raised five of her own, though it had been many seasons now since they’d left her Sett.

And even more than joyful, she was honoured, when the King sent for her, as he was looking for a Nanny for his child and, as he very graciously told her, she’d been highly recommended by many, something that warmed her heart immensely: for what could be better than to know your friends love and value you so much?

So Mellivorina became the little Prince’s Nanny and took up residence at Cair Paravel; and now, over six years later, she could say with truth that she’d never been more happy, after her cubs had grown up and found their paths, than she was now.

All in the King’s household had grown to like and respect her, and she in turn felt right at home with them, from the youngest Hedgehog kitchen maid to the King himself.

Everybody knew that she had a way of flitting about the familiar rooms of Prince Leo’s wing at night, to shut the windows if the wind grew chilly, to draw mosquito curtains over the sleeping Prince, or to bring the guards on duty some spiced wine, for her motherly instincts wouldn’t let her accept that it was their job to just stay there all night long without solace or rest. The least noise waked her and she was always making sure that the castle was peaceful and that nothing could disturb her charge’s rest.

Thus one summer night found her moving silently in the sweet-scented darkness; and when she checked on her charge, she found not only the little Prince, but King Edmund as well, sleeping there, father and son curled up around one another, a book of Tales dangling from one of the King’s hands, while the other was buried in his son’s soft black curls.

Mellivorina smiled tenderly; the King was always so affectionate with the child. It was a sweet tableau, watching them cuddle like this, but not at all unusual: His Majesty made time every day to come and play with his son, or put him to bed, despite his many engagements and the continuous demands on his attention.

She ran a paw gently through the dark hair, smoothing the fringe back from her charge’s temple. Asleep, the little Prince put one in mind of a cherub angel dreaming; and his father looked more relaxed and tranquil than he ever did awake, as if the weight of the crown had been lifted from his young forehead and all the hassle of his position was, for a while at least, forgotten.

She thought back fondly at the years she’d spent with the two of them. She would be hard pressed to choose the happiest moment among her memories…

So many stood to mind!...

…

_She’d only been the Royal Nanny for a couple days and she was accompanying the King, who’d wanted to be the one to take his toddler child out into the Southern Gardens for the first time._

_They were, everybody agreed on it, the most beautiful gardens in the kingdom and Erice the Hedgehog, the Royal Gardener, had kept them in wonderful condition, just like they were under Queen Susan’s loving care: flowers bloomed all year round, their life cycles carefully arranged to succeed one another without pause, Chrysanthemums and Freesias and Irises in Autumn, Cyclamen and Narcissi and Amaryllis in Winter, Hyacinths and Peonies and Roses in Spring, Campanulas and Dahlias and Foxgloves now that was Summer; a never interrupted feast of colours._

_The toddler squealed loudly at the bright shades and giggled trying to grab the butterflies and played happily among the flowerbeds. He was clearly having a grand time._

_She saw King Edmund grow sad, however. Then the monarch turned to Erice, inquiring gently on whether it would be possible to plant some lilies._

_“Lilies, Your Majesty?” asked the Gardener curiously._

_The King’s eyes strayed to his son, determinedly intent on climbing a rock as big as he was in the middle of the garden._

_“His mother’s name was Lily,” said the King softly and Mellivorina saw his eyes fill with sorrow and grief._

_Feeling privileged that they’d witnessed this moment, she and the Gardener shared a touched look._

_“It will be my honour to plant a flowerbed in Lady Lily’s memory, Your Majesty,” said the Royal Gardener quietly._

_King Edmund smiled sadly, then turned to catch his squealing son, who was running as fast as his little legs allowed him to, the intriguing shell of a snail proudly held up for inspection, and grabbing him he spun the child round and round, making him laugh excitedly and babble with delight in his incoherent baby speech; and they all laughed with the little Prince, the King losing his own sadness in his son’s joyful glee…_

…

_She’d been raising the little Prince for about a year and he was starting to speak more comprehensibly, combining words in short sentences. She was dozing off in the sun one afternoon, while sort-of keeping an eye on Prince Leo as he explored the small and fairly safe Western Garden, one of her favourite outdoor spots because she knew he couldn’t get into too much mischief there._

_Suddenly she felt an insistent tug on her pristine apron and opened her eyes to a childish voice calling excitedly: “Nanny Melli! Nanny Melli! Lookit!”_

_She stifled her laugh at the eagerness in those green orbs, wondering when she’d become ‘Nanny Melli’. Not that she minded: it was rather cute after all._

_“What do you have there, little one?”_

_“Lookit!” he cried showing off his treasure proudly. “ ’Tis magic!”_

_In his small hand, a bright red blossom, a verbena if she was not mistaken, was pulsing magically, opening and closing its petals as it sat there, like some bizarre, many-lipped oyster._

_For a moment, she was shocked; how was he doing that? Then she rolled her eyes good-naturedly. Those Dryads! Leaving their flowers around like that, what nonsense._

_“It’s very pretty, little one,” she said with a toothy smile._

_“Fer you, Nanny Melli!” he said sweetly and, touched, she took the blossom with care…_

…

_It was the Prince’s fourth birthday and she was this close to panicking, because he was nowhere to be found!_

_Nor could she locate_ _the little Mole that had become the Prince’s best friend, Earthclaw Mossflower (though he’d quickly become ‘Ertie’ to the Prince), anywhere. The two were inseparable these days: where one was, you could for sure find the other as well. But now they had both disappeared!_

_At first she’d just thought of a prank or a game, they were fond of hide and seek she knew, but it had been hours now since they were last seen. Some of the guards that were helping her search had already started murmuring the terrible word… kidnapping! It was, inevitably, a very real dread for the King’s son… there was no denying that their beloved sovereign had enemies… but she could not bring herself to bear such a horrible thought…_

_They had turned the entire castle upside down, top to bottom, and still there was no trace of the little Prince or his friend! They had seemingly vanished… lost… This was possibly the worst day of her life._

_Then, blessedly, two small and rather childish Fieldmice caught up with the search party, giggling and chuckling and squealing that they had found him._

_The relief, the comfort she felt then, in knowing him safe! And then, the irritation at the wayward Prince just up and disappearing like that – what was the cub thinking!_

_“Where are they? Where?” she asked anxiously._

_They all followed the two blabbing Fieldmice to the wine cellar, despite the guards’ grumblings that they had already searched the place: then the two small animals scurried quickly up a pillar, their long tails swishing madly behind them, and peeked out from the ceiling’s beams, giggling and squealing the whole time._

_“They’re here! They’re here! The Prince and his friend!” shrieked one._

_“Yes, they are! They really are! Both of them!” screeched the other._

_Then they both giggled and chuckled even more._

_“What?!” Mellivorina was in shock: how could two cubs have climbed up there? It was absurd!_

_Yet there they were, little Prince Leo blissfully asleep in precarious balance on a wooden beam, and as usual these days, curled around his soft little partner-in-crime. If her heart wasn’t jumping in her throat in horror at their unstable position, she would have found them adorable._

_“How in the Lion’s name did they get up there?” wondered Vurus the Faun._

_She shook her head. “I have no idea, but once we get them down, they’re in for a good talking to!”_

_“He he he, they’re all sticky!”_

_“Sticky! Sticky with honey!” cried the two Fieldmice from their favourable position._

_“They have honey everywhere!”_

_“Even on their butts!” More hapless giggling came from the silly rodents._

_Mellivorina closed her eyes, praying for patience. “All right!” she cried in exasperation. “They’re in for a talking to_ and _a bath!”_

_Relief made the guards’ laughter contagious…_

_…_

_The five-and-a-half years old Narnian Prince (and woe to whoever should forget the all-important ‘and a half’!) was standing proudly at his father’s side, for the first time allowed to appear in a public function and therefore very comprised of his important role. Mellivorina watched him affectionately from her out-of-the-way spot, proud that he was behaving so well._

_They were receiving a delegation from their friends of Archenland (and she had no doubt that King Edmund had chosen this occasion to let his son attend, precisely because it was old friends arriving), led by the exuberant Prince Corin, whom all in Narnia loved and dreaded in equal measure, because he was honourable and brave and his heart was in the right place, but he was reckless and irresponsible and all too prone to rush into harebrained plans too, may Aslan always protect him._

_King Lune had just sent him to spend some time at King Edmund’s Court after his latest crazy feat: he’d climbed up in the snow on the Narnian side of Stormness, seeking out the lair of the Lapsed Bear that lived there, which was really a Talking Bear but had gone back to Wild Bear habits, and boxed it without a time-keeper for thirty-three rounds, at the end of which the Bear couldn't see out of its eyes and became a reformed character._

_And while these kind of stunts spread and cemented Corin Thunder-Fist’s fame as the best boxer in the North Countries, King Lune wasn’t particularly happy at his irresponsible risk-taking behaviour!_

_It was the elder monarch’s hope that the steadying influence of the quieter and yet greatly admired King Edmund could ‘knock some sense into the boy’: after all, the Just and Thunder-Fist had always had a special relationship, almost as close as brothers, ever since King Edmund had taken the young Corin as his squire for the traditional period the Princes of Archenland were required to spend abroad in their early teens._

_The arrival of the delegation went well and Prince Corin, kind-hearted soul that he was, took the time to chat and joke with the little Prince and make him feel important… and tell a few of his feats to a new audience, because Prince Corin was everything good and noble, but modest, that he was not._

_Mellivorina groaned as she saw the look lighting up in her charge’s eyes as he listened to the riveting tales of this wonderful, brave and awesome man who was a Prince like him! She was not in the least surprised when putting Prince Leo to bed that night was a task, as the little Prince was too busy recounting all that he’d found out about his new idol, and planning in detail how he was going to grow up and be just like him._

_She shook her head but just smiled. Boys will be boys, and her little Prince could have chosen a worse model for his hero-worship, after all. She just dreaded what kind of craziness they might have to face…_

_Sure enough, it wasn’t long before the little tyke had talked the Armourer and his Dwarven Smiths to make him a pair of red gauntlets ‘just like Prince Corin’ and had started to firmly oppose any kind of clothes that weren’t the practical cambric tunics Prince Corin favoured. He could be seen at all times following the older Prince like a lost puppy, a worshipful gaze for his hero, hoping for a story or ‘an adventure’._

_It was really rather adorable, though she was glad that the Archenlander seemed to have fallen in love with the child and was being both protective and responsible around him, restricting their ‘daunting feats’ to fun games in the Orchard and the nearest beach._

_She stocked up on herbal remedies and cotton bandages all the same, just in case…_

…

_She’d taken to doing other tasks to help her friends while the Prince was having his lessons, now that he was almost seven and King Edmund had judged him ready to start learning a bit about his station._

_Winter was disappearing early that year and the sun streaking through the tall windows and bathing the corridor was warmer than one would expect at that time of year. She basked in it as she walked briskly down the familiar halls._

_She stepped into another corridor and stopped short, eyes narrowing and nose twitching. Excited giggles, hastily muffled, were coming from behind a set of heavy curtains and she could easily make out the lumps of something hidden there… three somethings, if she was not mistaken, and just the right size for certain cubs she knew, that were supposed to be working on their writing skills right now…_

_She marched right up and threw the curtains aside dramatically, eliciting surprised screams and indignant squeals._

_“Now what are you three up to?” she asked sternly, hiding her fond smile._

_The three cubs stood frozen for an instant: Prince Leo, with his wide, innocent eyes and his best ‘who-me?’ smile; Ertie, the little Mole, squinting and attempting to hide his mischievous grin; and Beatrix Honeypaw, better known as Bibi, the Bear cub that had recently become a permanent fixture in all of the other two’s adventures, looking rather guilty though trying not to._

_“Nothing, Nanny Melli!” they chorused, standing at attention before her._

_“Right,” she snorted, amused. “And a delegation of Talking Fish will come up for tea today,” she said sarcastically._

_The Prince’s big, innocent-looking eyes widened even more: “Will they, Nanny Melli?” he asked in his sweetest tone. She narrowed her eyes at him. He was up to something, she just knew it._

_Behind him, Bibi elbowed him and whispered: “What are you saying, silly, there are no Talking Fish! Don’t you remember the Tales of the First Days?...”_

_“Shhh!” he hissed back and gave his Nanny an even bigger smile. Oh, well. Two could play this game!_

_She kept herself from laughing at their antics and said just as sweetly: “Oh, yes. And since you’re doing nothing…” she pierced them with her gaze and they squirmed, but they didn’t own up to whatever plot they had going, “…you can help with all the necessary preparations,” she finished. “Go ask Cook how you may be of use and then go help old Mr. Erice with the Roses in the Southern Garden! Hop-hop!”_

_She shooed them off, ignoring their groans and protests._

_Whatever they might have been up to, a few light chores could only do them good, and would have the added bonus of keeping them occupied and out of trouble for a couple hours at least!_

_As she continued with her own business, she became aware of a string of annoyed grumblings coming from the room that had been adapted to classroom for the Prince and his friends._

_Going to investigate, she found Vitalius, the young Centaur that had volunteered for the daunting task of teaching the cubs to read and write, completely covered in a reddish, sticky substance, head to tail._

_Stifling her laugh, she recognized the natural dye made by squeezing blackberries and mixing them with alum and wondered how the cubs had got their paws on it. Oh, the poor teacher!_

_She was a little surprised that it didn’t come off easily, as usually it took several hours of drying to make it hard to wash out… then again, Centaurs weren’t the most practical of creatures and there was a chance he was going about it the wrong way. It took warm water, and a little bit of mild soap wouldn’t go amiss…_

_She advised him to seek out the Castle’s Housekeeper, Mrs. Cottontail, and get the Talking Rabbit’s help. He thanked her politely, despite being seriously annoyed, and left, all the while grumbling about wayward pupils that should respect their elders. “Just you wait, when I get my hands on those three…”_

_Mellidorina waited until he was safely out of hearing range before bursting out in a merry laugh..._

…

She nearly laughed aloud just remembering the good times, but she refrained so as not to disturb the two sleeping.

Gently, she pried the book from the King’s hand. Instinctively, the man turned to drape the freed arm over his child, and the boy in turn snuggled closer to his father.

She glanced at the volume distractedly before putting it down: she knew it well, it was the little Prince’s favourite and she’d often chuckled with Cook about the idea of what foreign dignitaries would say if they ever heard the Just King reading to his child about the Mice of Brambly Hedge – with voices!

Their Liege really loved his child.

She tenderly spread a soft blanket over them and tucked them in, just in case the nightly breeze might become chilly.

Then she softly blew on the lone and mostly-consumed candle that still burned a little. Out of habit, like her mother always told her to do, she expressed a wish as the small flame was snuffed out.

She wished for many more years like these.


	6. Peter

 

_TIM 5:8 “But if anyone does not provide for his relatives,_   
_and especially for members of his household,_   
_he has denied the faith and is worse  
than an unbeliever.”_

 

Peter closed his eyes firmly and took a deep, calming breath.

First he’d been whisked away from his world unexpectedly, and while this was a joyous event for him, Edmund’s stricken face as he watched his older brother disappear had torn Peter’s heart to shreds. Edmund would have been a thousand times better a companion on an adventure – _any_ adventure – than this… _child_ that had been taken from England with him.

Then the silly girl had to go and endanger herself, and when Peter, worried for her safety, had tried to get her away from the chasm, she’d managed to push him off the edge!

True, he’d barely dropped at all before a warm wind had caught and levitated him; and he’d recognized Aslan’s touch in that, and relaxed.

But now that he’d landed, and the first bubbling excitement at recognizing a very familiar landscape under his clear Northern Skies had quieted, and the girl… he thought her name might be Jill… was in sight, gliding gently on the Lion’s breath like he had done… it was hard to clamp down on his anger!

Yet, he was in Narnia here, and he should not forget his station: shouting at a _child_ was unbecoming to the High King.

So he gritted his teeth and when the girl landed with a little bounce, instead of berating her, he politely, if a little coldly, asked if she was alright.

She flushed in shame and then raised her head boldly, meeting his eyes without wavering: “Yes, thank you. How are _you?_ I’m very sorry that I accidentally pushed you like that and I was so worried! Even if the Lion said you would be alright, I couldn’t help but think…”

“Aslan talked to you?” blurted out Peter in wonder.

“Aslan…” she murmured, eyes unfocused, and Peter had the strangest impression that she was rolling the name on her tongue, as if to taste it. “Is that His name?” she whispered in awe.

“Yes,” answered Peter quietly, well knowing what kind of effect talking to the Lion had on everyone, especially the first time, and that merely hearing His name could make you feel brave and adventurous. “He is the King of Kings, and the son of the great Emperor-beyond-the-Sea. Whatever he told you, keep it close to your heart,” he advised.

Jill bit her lip, gaze still unfocused. “I was so scared when I saw a Lion right there by that stream…” she mumbled.

“Of course you were,” said Peter matter-of-factly. “ _If there's anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they're either braver than most or else just silly_ ,” he quoted: which was, almost word by word, what the good Beavers had told him the first time they’d spoken of Aslan.

The girl turned to him, worried. “Then… then He isn’t safe? I felt, when I was almost between His paws, that I could trust Him so much…”

Peter made an effort to refrain from laughing. “Safe? Of course He isn’t _safe_. It’s not like He is a _tame_ Lion! But He’s good. Of that you can be sure. Did He tell you if He’s coming here?” he said, trying to hide his eagerness at the prospect.

Jill shook her head and said earnestly: “Oh, He’s told me so many things! But He said that He will not often speak to me clearly here, that the air here is not as clear as on the mountain, but thicker, and it might confuse my mind. And He told me where we are and what we’re supposed to do and everything!”

“Well, share then!” demanded Peter eagerly, a part of him sad that he had missed Aslan, but trying to ignore his slight jealousy in order to hear the girl’s – Jill’s – tale.

Besides, how could he indulge in silly jealousy when his greatest wish had been granted?

He was in Narnia again at last!

How he had longed for this! How he had dreamed and wondered, from the moment Susan had disappeared… nay, even earlier… hoping…

And now he was here! Here, under his clear Northern Skies once more!

The great flat plain he’d spent so long in with his army during the campaigns against the Giants extended as far as the eye could see in every direction, cut into countless little islands by channels of water.

Oh, how familiar the landscape was!

The beds of rushes and the coarse grass, the clouds of birds and the far-away shadow of the forest fringe several miles to the south and west of them… he could even spot a few wigwams dotted about, but all at a good distance from one another, for as he well knew, Marsh-wiggles are people who like privacy; though it was a pity that they were so solitary, for they were truly creatures worth knowing, in spite of their legendary pessimism. Many a time they had saved the day during the war, all the while proclaiming that Narnia was most certainly lost _forever_ : Peter couldn’t help but grin at the memories.

He breathed deeply, catching the hint of salt tang in the wind which blew from the East, as usual in early winter, from the distant sea over the low sand-hills on the horizon and finally reaching the flat marshland, where it mixed with the poignant stink from Ettinsmoor and the smell of the grass root the marsh-wiggles boiled to quell the nasty stench. Unforgettable scent…

And to the North, the rolling slopes of beloved pale-coloured hills, that so many fierce battles had witnessed during the war…

So many days Peter had spent fighting for his life, his country, but most importantly, the safety of his people; so many nights he’d whiled away around orange fires, listening to the lilting sound of a flute wafting from some wigwam and watching the smoke curls or gazing up at the stars speckling the sky, as hauntingly striking as the lands beneath them.

How many times had he seen the sharp rocks and swift currents of the perilous River Shribble, that marked the border between Narnia and the Wildlands, turn red with the blood of the Northern Giants and his own warriors alike?

How many times had he soared through blue skies with his brother-in-arms, Fiercebeak the Gryphon, watching his lands spread beneath him, letting the rugged beauty of his North take his breath away even as he checked the position of his army and the enemy and planned ahead for the next battle? How nervous he’d been that first time, at fourteen! Yet how wonderful it had been to be airborne, how he’d loved every flight, how he longed to fly on a gryphon’s back once more!

He could feel his spirit rise just by looking at the wonder that was the vibrant, piercing blue sky he was blessed to have above him once again.

If only his siblings were with him…

He closed his eyes for an instant, overwhelmed, then opened them with renewed determination and focused on his young companion.

The girl was saying practically: “Well, whether you believe it or not, Pevensie, we’re in a different world altogether and – get this – it is the very same world your sister Lucy kept narrating tales about! Apparently this place is called Narnia…”

“I know!” interrupted Peter impatiently, but then waved her on without elaborating when she raised her eyebrows in curiosity.

“So my guess was right… you _did_ come here before! That’s why you know Aslan!” she said triumphantly. Then she narrowed her eyes: “You’re going to tell me _everything_ , Pevensie!”

Peter bristled. Who was she to order him about? Here, in his own Kingdom? “What did the Lion say?” he asked again, without bothering to conceal his annoyance.

She humphed, but went on with her tale. “Alright, so, Narnia was a Kingdom that used to be ruled by two Kings and two Queens…”

Peter firmed his lips at the pang he felt. _Used to_.

“…but then they disappeared, vanished without a trace…”

He nodded, unable to speak. It still hurt. Maybe this was his chance to make things right… he deftly ignored Jill’s penetrating gaze. Let her reach her own conclusions.

“…and only one of the Kings has returned so far,” she said slowly.

Peter startled. One of… Edmund? _Edmund!_ How was this possible? When… how…

Susan had disappeared first, from that train station years earlier, shouldn’t _she_ be the one who was back? Wasn’t she here? And what about Lucy? For the first time he worried about his sisters’ fate. But no, Eustace had told him they were safe and happy and that Susan was Queen, married to a King of Narnia as was only proper – though the idea that his sister had chosen and he didn’t even know the man didn’t sit well with him… - so what was going on?

And last he knew, Edmund was still in England, he was sure he’d seen his startled, sad face as he vanished… what was up with that?

He didn’t know what to think.

Joy, envy, worry, excitement, hope, regret, sorrow, irritation, happiness, everything was confused.

He put aside all this however, in favour of listening to Jill.

She had apparently reached the conclusion that it was best to hold her questions – for which he was grateful - and went on: “Anyway. The King who has returned, he has a son…”

What? _What?!?_ A son… Edmund? _Eddy_ had a _son?!?_ Since when! With whom!

Peter was no longer confused: now he was flabbergasted. So many swirling questions… but Jill wasn’t finished.

“The King” – Eddy! Eddy who had a _son!_ – “had to go to war in the south, and he’s still there,” continued the girl.

Ha. He would bet it was the Calormens. Bunch of heathens! It was _always_ the Calormens… unless it was the Giants of course… At least Eustace had confirmed Susan’s husband – Lion’s mane, she was _married!_ And Edmund had a _son!_ – was not one of them like that Ridiculous Rabadash… he hoped Edmund was alright… he was a fearsome warrior to be sure, but the Halls of Diplomacy were always more his cup of tea then the battlefields… and now he had a son… a child! What if something happened to him…?

He pushed away the looming memory of his baby brother dying, stabbed by the thrice-damned Witch, that always came back to him whenever his brother was in danger…

“…but while he was away, someone kidnapped the little Prince…” Jill’s voice intruded in his musings and once he registered the words, all thoughts came to a screeching halt.

_What?!_

Jill looked at him oddly. Had he said that aloud? “The King’s son was kidnapped,” she repeated, slowly and clearly.

_Who the hell had dared to touch HIS NEPHEW!_

“And the King can’t save him,” added Jill, almost as an afterthought.

Peter’s rage was derailed by sudden panic: “What do you mean, he can’t! Of course he can! He has to!”

It was _his nephew_ they were talking about! _Eddy’s son!_ Of course he was going to be saved, any other outcome was unthinkable, and then those scoundrels who’d dared harm him would _pay_ , he would make sure of that himself!

But Jill was shaking her head: “That’s what the Lion said: the King can’t leave to save his child, or Narnia will be lost. He said that the war in the south will not be won on a battlefield, for it is a matter of restoring justice… and that if the King that has returned leaves to go looking for his son, the matter will never be settled and Narnia will be lost to a vicious invasion… that the enemies will silence the Beasts and the Trees and the Fountains, and drive away the Dwarves and Fauns, and forget the Deep Magic, until they will believe that Narnia is the land of Men and not the country of Aslan.” She said all this very fast, and by the end of it she was quite breathless. “It was all very sad to hear,” she concluded desolately.

Peter frowned, his learned mind considering the problem, and ways to spare his people such a terrible fate. A matter of justice, well, that was fitting for the Just King, so he couldn’t take his brother’s place in battle; and he knew better than anyone that when you’re King, you’re the first servant to your people, the safety and welfare of your land must come before anything else…

…but they couldn’t let the child be harmed! He was _family!_

And then, just like that, Peter knew.

“We’re going to save the Prince ourselves,” he proclaimed, and didn’t even notice that he was standing straighter and his voice had deepened to the tone High King Peter had once upon a time used to address his Generals.

Jill blinked, unexpectedly looking a little unsettled and intimidated, though she rallied quickly: “Well, yes, that is what the Lion wants us to do, but…”

Peter shook his head determinedly. “No buts. Did the Lion tell you anything else? Give you any hint on how to go about it? Any advice?” First things first, collecting all information relevant to the issue in order to properly plan the campaign… then they’d have to look for some help… provisions at the very least…

Jill’s gaze became steely. “Yes. Four Signs. But before I tell you…” she raised her hand sharply against Peter’s protest, “ _before_ I tell you _anything_ , you have some explaining to do, _Mr. Pevensie!”_

Peter made an irritated gesture, but then subsided. She had a point. And if Aslan had chosen her for this Quest… well, who was Peter to object? High King he might be, but he was so by the gift of Aslan!

So he steeled himself and looked her straight in the eyes, and watched her gasp in surprise and awe. “Peter,” he said firmly. “No ‘Pevensie’ here, not on my lands.”

“ _Your_ lands?...” she asked faintly.

“Yes. I am Peter, by the gift of Aslan, by election, by prescription, and by conquest, High King over all Kings in Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Cair Paravel, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion.”

He looked her squarely in the eye, enjoying her shock. “Now tell me how we’ll save my nephew.”

Jill promptly fell on her butt in shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Livily, whose inspiring words in 'Points on a Compass' helped me see the wonder and beauty of Narnia’s North.


	7. Jill

 

_DEU 11:8 “_ _Observe therefore all the commands I am  
giving you today, so that you may have the strength…”_

 

 

Jill was in shock.

A few hours ago, she’d been a normal schoolgirl, attending a horrid school, who’d sort of befriended a nice, merry girl a little older than herself, who loved to tell tales of fantastic lands and imaginary creatures, and had died rather tragically, which had made a profound impression on Jill; so much so that she’d insisted on attending the funeral, despite the fact that the girl’s git of a cousin didn’t seem sad at all and instead kept smiling at the oddest moments, as if he knew a secret no one else did, and the girl’s older brothers, also rather improperly not grieving, seemed to share that secret.

So, maybe not utterly normal, but mostly.

Now, she was in another world entirely, set on a mission to help none other than the girl’s strange brothers, one of whom was right beside her, moving about as if he’d known the land for years, which, as it turned out, he had, seeing as he was the King of the place.

A _King!_ An actual, honest-to-God King of a mysterious land!

And they were setting out to save a Prince! Like… like in a fairy tale!

A Prince who was the nephew of said King!

It was just too much.

Of course, it didn’t stop there.

With the willpower of a whirlwind, Peter Pevensie – _High King_ Peter! _Waaaay_ beyond belief! – drew her to meet the strangest creature imaginable.

He was all legs and arms, and they were very long legs and arms indeed, with fingers webbed like a frog's; his skin was nearly the same colour as the marsh and his face long and sunken; he wore earth-coloured clothes that hung loose about his thin frame and a high, pointed hat, with an enormously wide flat brim, under which she could spot greeny-grey hair, that looked like tiny reeds hanging over his large ears.

Jill couldn’t help staring rather rudely. He was so odd!

The marsh-wiggle, for that was what the creature turned out to be, received them very solemnly and Jill could see at once that he took a serious view of life.

He didn’t want to appear like he wasn’t happy and relieved that His Majesty was back, but he was sure that his return heralded direst catastrophes about to befall Narnia; he was desolate to inform them that the sunny day was very likely about to turn to rain or perhaps snow, or fog, or thunder, and that they were not to hope for a fire that night, because the wood was destined to be soppy, or any dinner, because he was unlikely to catch anything edible; he couldn’t imagine why they would come so far into the marshes if not to announce that the South had been invaded, or a fire had destroyed the Western Woods, or perhaps a few dragons had attacked the coast… He was prepared for anything: “Don't try breaking it to me gently, my King, for I'd rather have it all at once!” he told them sadly.

Jill was rather perplexed by his strange attitude, but Peter’s wide, amused smile reassured her somewhat.

A few birds, taller than Jill and with an impressive wingspan, showed up after a while with harsh croaks that soon morphed into excited chatter: they surprised Jill badly, because she hadn’t truly believed Lucy Pevensie’s tales about the Talking Beasts of Narnia.

They were very indignant that she didn’t know at once they were Great Blue Herons and she was worried that she’d offended them, but Peter kindly told her not to worry about their tantrums, for they were just snobbish.

Anyway, they made a remarkable racket when they recognized Peter and quickly took off to spread the word of his return through the marshes.

Soon other marsh-wiggles started approaching, with funereal attitudes and a gift of a few eels ‘to make an eel stew’, though they ‘didn’t expect His Majesty and his companion to like them much’, even if they would ‘no doubt put a bold face on it, since they’d been well brought-up’.

As Jill suspected from the very first moment, when the meal was finally ready it turned out to be delicious, and didn’t disagree with her at all, in spite of the dire predictions of ‘food for wiggles likely being poison for humans’ she’d been regaled with.

The rest of the day was spent in preparations and she got to watch Peter – the King – whatever – as he organized their journey north: clearly in his element, he discussed Giants’ patrols and checked blankets and bows, sent a Heron off with a message for his castle and bundled up food, listened to everyone’s reports about the little lost Prince and debated choosing between dried tea leaves and grass root, reassured the marsh-wiggles that neither the improbability of using bows with damp bowstrings and bad light nor the high likelihood of starving or freezing to death in their expedition could make them lose their heart and sorted one hundred little problems with decisiveness and authority.

Jill, for her part, contemplated the landscape and chatted with the weird creatures and kept at a distance from the young man.

She didn’t know how to act around him!

She kept glancing at him from the corner of her eye, noticing how at ease he was and what a huge smile he had – he was really happy to be there! – and how regal he looked despite the fact that he was covered in mud.

It was all so strange!

She was intimidated by him, but that irritated her, so she tried to pretend she was not and be bold, but he was so daunting! And he was so gentle, too, so she couldn’t get annoyed at him or anything even if he treated her like a little child, which she was not! And he made her feel like she’d never learned any manners at all, which wasn’t true! And she wanted to make a good impression on him, only he was also rather annoying, and irritating, and irksome, King or not…

She didn’t even know how to address him!

Should she call him ‘ _King_ Peter’? ‘Your Majesty’? Just ‘Peter’? What was the etiquette when you suddenly found yourself stranded in another world in the company of a King who’s also your git of a classmate’s cousin?… She really wished someone had thought of writing a ‘good manners manual’ of some sort for the occasion!

That night, as she slowly fell asleep in the warmth of the wigwam, on a cot that, contrary to all the marsh-wiggles' forecasts, was amazingly comfortable, she thought back to the cryptic Signs she’d been given, terribly worried that she might have forgotten them.

The voice of Aslan resounded comforting in her memory: “These are the signs by which I will guide you in your quest… First; the High King must look for help from a good friend of old: if he does not, you will reach the lost Prince too late.”

Well, it seemed to Jill that they’d managed this one… the marsh-wiggles were really friendly, despite their pessimism… who would have thought that _Scrubb’s cousin_ was the High King though…

She wondered if they’d find the other Signs soon. At least she remembered them well…

“Second; you must journey out of Narnia to the north till you come to the darkness that dwells there and not be swayed by misleading lights… Third; you shall find the key to your path under the surface of the world… Fourth; you will know the lost prince (if you find him) by this, that he will be the first person you have met in your travels who will say my name.”

Jill drifted off to sleep still repeating the Signs to herself.

They set out the day after that in the pale winter sunlight, with the cheerful assurances from their host that ‘it stood to reason they were not likely to get very far on a journey to the North, not at this time of the year, with the winter coming on soon and all; but they shouldn’t let that make them down-hearted, for very likely, what with enemies, and mountains, and rivers to cross, and losing their way, and next to nothing to eat, and sore feet, they would hardly notice the weather…’

By now, Jill had caught the hint about marsh-wiggles, and didn’t let the dreary words upset her; the ground was springy and good for walking, the air fresh and pungent, Peter looked determined and at ease and she was in high spirits!

Weird places and even weirder creatures were on the horizon… and she was marching straight towards them! How could she not be excited?

It was as they stopped for a light lunch and a bit of rest that they suddenly discovered that they were not travelling alone after all.

Peter was opening his bundled backpack to find something they could snack on, when he noticed something moving in it!

He cursed and Jill let out a little startled cry, because out of the blue, two bulbous eyes, on top of a bright green head, were peeking at them from a bundled blanket, like when marsh frogs look on the surface of a pond while the body stays safely submerged under water.

And a marsh frog it was indeed!

About six inches long, with strong hind legs that were clearly made for jumping and a dark green skin, spotted with brown all over the back and sides, with three lighter green lines on the back.

“A stowaway!” exclaimed Peter, half annoyed, half amused, while picking the big frog up and glaring sternly.

The Animal gave him a crooked grin, looking rather ridiculous Jill thought, and squeaked: “At your service, Your Majesty!”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, though Jill could see that he wasn’t seriously annoyed: “I thank thee, Master Frog, but I find myself in no need of your services!”

The little guy’s snout fell and he pulled a disappointed face. Then he sniffed and turned pathetically to Jill and then to Peter again: “Oh, oh, let me come with you, Your Majesty, let me come! Please? Please?”

Jill giggled at the frog’s silly attempt at making puppy-eyes, which wouldn’t have worked very well, she suspected, even if the quivering excitement and dancing eyes hadn’t belied him.

He had to be really an adventurous chap!

“Didn’t you notice the added weight?” asked Jill curiously from Peter.

The young man shook his head, moving the hand that held the frog up and down as if to weight him: “He’s less than half an ounce,” he commented: “the perfect stowaway!” And glared mock-seriously at the bright green Animal.

“Oh, come on! I’m small! I don’t eat much! Let me come, let me come!”

Jill giggled again.

“Gentle lady, plead for my cause! Don’t you want me to come with you? Say you do! Look at me! Aren’t I adorable!” he batted his bulbous eyes at her flirtatiously.

Jill burst out laughing merrily. “Oh, yes! Truly a frog king,” she giggled, thinking of the fairy tale.

“Rather a silly rascal!” grumbled Peter.

Then he sighed. “I do not doubt your courage nor your skill, Master Frog, but we’re moving fast and we’re going towards the cold. It is no place for a Talking Frog, not even an adventurous one!”

“What’s your name, anyway?” asked Jill in a friendly manner.

The frog jumped so high it landed right on top of her own backpack, and she could see that it didn’t make much of a difference in weight, just like Peter had said.

“Flyswatter, dear Madam, at your service!”

Jill turned to Peter, doubling the little guy’s puppy-eyes with her own, much more effective, ones.

The King groaned. “Fine! Fine! But when you get frostbites, don’t come complaining!”

Flyswatter made the journey more lively, to be sure, for he wouldn’t stay still and jumped all the time all around them, pointing out to Jill this and that, a reed or a bug or a sedge or some other feature of the morass, and telling her all about how dragonflies taste much better than earthworms but he preferred slugs above all else.

After a while however he grew dead tired and climbed back into Peter’s bundle, where he promptly fell asleep, leaving them in blessed silence for a few hours; until he woke up and was an explosion of energy once more.

The following days went by much like the first one.

As they got deeper into the moor, Jill started to think that these ‘Wild Waste Lands of the North’ were a very lonesome place. Strangely, though, they were not at all depressing. There was something fine and clean about the loneliness, that made her feel at ease in a silence that should have been daunting…

She had come to admit pretty soon, however, that they were not hospital lands and that she would never have survived on her own.

Thankfully Peter was an expert about marches and bivouacs and showed her how to make a fire to cook the moor-fowl – and Jill was surprised when he took care to seriously reassure her that they were not, of course, Talking Birds, because she wouldn’t have thought of it – and how to keep each other warm during the chilly nights spent on the hard and lumpy ground.

She was rather disgusted by what a long, smelly, messy job it was to pluck and clean dead birds: she’d never imagined that living on what you shoot would be so nauseating. Though it was still better than eating spiders like Flyswatter suggested! At least they were never short of water, since there were countless streams on the moor.

The very best thing however was that her companion had brought a bow for her as well and soon started teaching her how to use it.

“You never know when it might be useful,” he told her earnestly.

He also told her a lot of stories about his Royal Sister, Queen Susan, who was the most skilled archer in Narnia and could hit a small apple at 100 yards dead centre. They were fascinating tales!

When he was in the mood, often at twilight when they were waiting for the meat to roast on their open fires, King Peter would tell the most wonderful stories of his and his siblings’ adventures.

Jill enjoyed the tales of Lucy the Valliant the most, however: she loved to imagine the cheerful girl she’d known in England among the strange creatures her brother mentioned. She could hardly believe that when Lucy’d become Queen, she was even younger than Jill was now!

Flyswatter, on the other hand, always pestered the King for tales of voyages and battles. Those were a completely different matter for Jill: they were so awful! Especially the stories that featured Giants. She’d always been scared of Giants, even back in England where she didn’t believe in their existence, but now that Peter kept going on and on about them, and how dangerous they were, and how hard he’d had to fight against them, and how whenever Narnia was in danger it was invariably the Giants’ fault (unless, apparently, it was the Calormens’, whoever they were), she was growing to be truly terrified.

A part of her, however, was sure that Peter exaggerated them purposely. He liked scaring her, there was no other explanation! No way could all those horrible, horrible stories be real, Peter – she wasn’t going to call him King if he was being so mean – was just having fun at her expenses!…

It was like with her cousin Tom, who was ten years older than her and thought it was every young man’s right to wind their little cousins up, by making them some very pretty presents, and laughing at them mercilessly at the same time. Peter’s gifts were always stories, which Jill preferred to knickknacks anyway, but clearly, he was just like Tom, always ready to mock her and he was using those awful stories to laugh at her fear: definitely annoying!

Very soon, the simple mention of the word ‘Giants’ was enough to make her scowl ferociously.

There was no denying though that Peter knew the marshes like the back of his hands: he had clearly spent a lot of time there. Even Flyswatter was in awe, because although he’d been born and bred in that environment, he’d never gone very far from his birthing pond.

Thanks to Peter’s shortcuts, it took them only a week to journey through the wetlands, even if to Jill it seemed like months and months, so many new things was she learning every day, and so tired was she every night.

Finally though they came to the northern edge of the moor and looked down a long, steep slope into a different, and grimmer, land, full of high mountains sprinkled with snow, steep dark precipices, stony valleys so deep and narrow that one could not see far into them, and rivers that poured out of echoing gorges to plunge sullenly into black depths.

Not a nice place to venture into, definitely: and that it was winter did not help any.

She wondered how they would reach the gloomy area, for their path was cut by a tumultuous waterway. Even where they stood on top of the slope, the roar of the river running below them, green and sunless, shook the earth.

Jill shivered.

Peter was undeterred, of course, but negotiating the chilly watercourse, full of rapids and walled in by precipices on the far side as well as on their own, was indeed no easy task: afterwards, they had to stop and rest, for Jill was quite exhausted.

While Peter endeavoured to catch a few fishes from the river, to give them something of a change that night, Jill watched the very weird landscape, that was full of strange rocks, huge and upright, like little towers. And what funny shapes they were! Soon, she started likening this rock or that to a shape, like you would do with clouds in a lazy day.

It did not take her long to convince herself that all the stories about giants might have come from those funny rocks.

“I’ve caught up with you now, Mr King,” she said to herself. “Giants indeed! I suppose, if you were coming along here when it was half dark, you could easily think those piles of rock were giants. And all that bushy stuff - I suppose it's heather and birds' nests, really - would do quite well for hair and beard…”

“Ah… Jill?” said Flyswatter cautiously.

“Look at that one, now!” she went on, oblivious. “You could almost imagine that the lump on top was a head, really!...”

“Jill?” said the Frog more urgently.

“And the things sticking out on each side are quite like ears,” she was warming up to the subject now, “they'd be horribly big, but then I dare say giants would have big ears, like elephants…”

“Jill, those _are_ Giants!”

“And - o-o-oh!" Jill blanched with sudden horror as the ‘rock’ moved and she finally realized what her small companion was saying!

They called Peter back hurriedly and he was soon at their side, helping them to quickly hide.

“Well,” he said with grim determination form where they were spying on the nearest cluster of giants. “I’d hoped that we could pass the first gorge at least before meeting them, but it seems it’s not to be. We’ll have to face them…”

“What?! Go up against them?!? Are you mad?” hissed Jill.

Peter shook his head. “You’d need an army to ‘go up against them’, Jill! No. We must try with diplomacy, I think.”

“Diplomacy,” deadpanned Jill, her scepticism heavy in her voice. Diplomacy with Giants? Suuure…

“Well, we need information, do we not? Unless you already know where my nephew is?”

Jill frowned. “Well, no… but what if they’re the ones who kidnapped the Prince?”

She paled again when she caught Peter’s grim expression and realized that he was thinking along the same lines.

“You… you w-want to g-go and ask them where the P-prince is, even if you think they’re r-responsible?!...”

“I should probably try and approach them on my own,” murmured Peter thoughtfully. “You would be in even more danger and can’t really defend yourself…”

Jill bristled but didn’t say anything, because it irked her to be considered defenceless, but she didn’t really want to get any closer to the Giants! In fact she wanted to stay as far away from them as possible!

But then a horrible thought came to her.

“Didn’t you say that you fought against these Giants a lot?”

“I did,” answered Peter frowning, “which is why I know what they’re capable of and…”

“And you where the King of their enemies?” went on Jill undeterred, slowly voicing her frightening reasoning.

“Yes.” Peter was frowning even more.

“So you’re famous among them?” asked Jill slyly.

“Well, more infamous I suspect, but well-known, yes, if that’s what you mean.”

“Then wouldn’t they recognize you if you go there?” said Jill, half-triumphantly, half in dread.

“I… I suppose…”

“And would they react well to seeing you?”

Peter gave her a long look. “No, definitely not.”

“They would react poorly, ” stated Jill.

“Yes,” sighed Peter.

“Cut-his-head-off kind of poorly?” insisted the girl.

“Alright, alright! You’ve made your point! I’ll stay hidden,” said Peter exasperatedly; “but you can’t expect me to let _you_ go!”

It was Jill’s turn to frown. “Why not? We need to collect information, you said it yourself! You can’t go, so that leaves me!” Not that she was happy at the prospect, far from it, but she thought she could find the courage, since there didn’t seem to be any other option. And she would prove to _His Majesty_ that she wasn’t the useless child he thought!

“But- but!” spluttered Peter. “It’s dangerous!”

She knew that, thank you very much! But… “Not as dangerous as it would be for you!” she retorted. She was very proud that she didn’t sound as scared as she actually was.

“That’s different!” exclaimed Peter.

“How so?”

“Well, for one, you’re just a little girl!”

Jill’s eyes went frosty. Oh, that was just what she needed to forget her fear entirely!

“What has that got to do with anything?” she asked through clenched teeth. Her flashing gaze was a warning in and of itself that Peter was treading dangerous ground.

But he’d had this conversation with no less than two stubborn and very determined sisters, more than once, and he knew how to handle it. “I’m not saying or implying that you can’t do it, or that you’re not brave or smart enough or anything as dumb as that,” he said patiently, “merely that you’re younger than me – little more than a child, truth be told – and far less experienced in matters of fighting and spying, and as King and Knight it is my duty, and my honour, to protect you, like any other of my people or guests: that’s all. What kind of leader would I be if I put you in danger needlessly?”

Put like that, Jill had to admit, it didn’t sound too bad.

She sighed. “Ok. I understand… But…”

But her fear was almost gone now and a new resolve had grown in her. She tried to put it into words: “Aslan chose me for this task and He must have had a reason. What if that reason was precisely that I could go there and not be in too much danger? I can pretend that I was travelling with my family and got lost or something and tell them my family is going the opposite way than you are, so you won’t be in danger, and nobody will be shocked if a child asks questions, will they?”

Peter firmed his lips. “I don’t like this.”

Jill sniffed, offended: “You think I can’t do it, don’t you?”

Peter closed his eyes, as if praying for patience. “It isn’t a game, Jill. The risks…”

“You’re the one who said we need information!” she crossed her arms petulantly.

“Yes, but not at the cost of your life!” he retorted angrily.

Jill shut up at that, pale and wide-eyed. Said it out loud like that, it suddenly seemed much more real and serious – it was almost enough to make her lose heart.

There was a long silence, but eventually Flyswatter peeped: “Night is the mother of counsel, my Grandpa always says! If we sleep on this, we’ll make a better decision in the morning!”

The two humans started, because he’d been so quiet during the discussion, that they’d quite forgotten him! But they recognized the sense of his suggestion and settled to wait for dawn.

Flyswatter’s words were sort of prophetic, because the night did, indeed, bring Jill some counsel.

As she contemplated broodingly the nocturnal landscape, a cluster of glinting lights grouped far on a mountain slope caught her eye, like a constellation in the night.

“What is that?” she asked, awed despite herself.

“Hm?” asked Peter distractedly. “Oh, that. It’s the Giants’ only big town, Ettins, their capital if you will.”

He stood and joined Jill where she was watching the deep darkness of the night and the shimmer of lights gleaming in its velvety black like a jewel.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he murmured, and it sounded both sad and bitter. “Too bad it won’t be so when we get there…”

“Get there…” echoed Jill, but her mind was miles away, and she was hearing a fain echo of the Lion’s voice: _and not be swayed by misleading lights…_

“Peter, we _mustn’t_ go there!” she exclaimed with sudden certainty.

The young man turned slightly, his figure barely visible to her in the sea of black around them. “Weren’t you the one who wanted to go and infiltrate it just a couple hours ago?”

“Well I changed my mind! We can’t, we _must not_ go there, it’s the wrong way!”

“Wrong way?”

Jill explained impatiently: “Don’t you remember the Second Sign? We must ‘not be swayed by misleading lights’, that’s what it said!”

“And you think that city,” Peter’s silhouette gestured to the glitter in the distance, “is misleading us, then?”

Jill nodded vigorously. “Yes! Clearly! We must ‘journey out of Narnia to the north’ until we reach the ‘darkness that dwells there’!”

“Ettins _is_ out of Narnia and to the north,” pointed out Peter reasonably.

“But it isn’t dark!” retorted Jill.

“Oh, trust me,” said Peter glumly, “there’s plenty of darkness in that ill-fated place!”

“That’s not what I mean!” cried Jill, aggravated.

“Perhaps not, but how do you know it’s not what the Sign means?”

“What?” asked Jill, derailed.

“Jill, sometimes Aslan can work in mysterious ways,” said Peter shaking his head. “We have no way to be sure… Anyway we must go there.”

“No!”

“It’s the only place I can think of where we might find some clue about my nephew’s whereabouts.”

“But you said it’s dangerous!” tried Jill.

“And you said you didn’t care!”

“That was when I thought it was the right thing to do!”

“It is the right thing to do!”

“No it’s not! It’s going against the Second Sign!”

“You can’t be sure…”

“I am too sure!”

“And what else do you suggest? There’s nothing north of that, nowhere we can go and find information!”

“There is! There must be! Aslan said so…”

“So what do you suggest? That we just try and go further and further northward, without a destination, wandering aimlessly in the snow in the hope of finding something that might well not be there, that is, if the Giants don’t catch us first? That’s madness!”

“It’s madness to go there when we’ve been warned against it!”

“Jill…” Peter sighed, frustrated and unhappy.

After a lengthy silence, he turned away abruptly and went to sit under the towering rocks that were providing them cover.

Jill stumbled and staggered in the darkness until she managed to collapse near him, downhearted and irritated.

“You might well be right, but… we can’t go on without a destination, Jill,” Peter murmured dejectedly.

“We have a destination… north of Narnia…” she replied quietly, but she was a bit uncertain herself.

The young man snorted: “Which means everything and nothing. The northern lands are immense, Jill. The hope of actually finding my nephew without better directions…” Peter heaved a sigh. “I so wish Fiercebeak was here!”

Jill, recognizing the potential for another tale, perked up. “Fiercebeak? Who was that?” she asked, eager to think of something else, since there didn’t seem to be a solution to their quandary.

She could almost hear a fond smile in Peter’s voice as he answered: “A good friend of old. We’ve flown together so many times… he’s a Gryphon, you know. He would be easily able to fly over the whole area in a reasonably short time and we wouldn’t have to worry about cold and hunger and Giants…”

Jill had frozen at his very first words.

She gulped and repeated feebly: “A good friend of old…?”

Peter nodded. “Oh, yes! …”

At that, Jill flew into a temper: “You rotten tick! That was the first Sign! How could you miss it, it was your friend we should have looked for!”

Peter was puzzled. “We did! Every Narnian is a friend, and we did get help…”

“No, you should have asked a ‘good friend of old’! That’s what Aslan said!”

“Well, how was I supposed to know? I wasn’t exactly there to hear the Signs, was I?” Now he was annoyed, but Jill wasn’t any less aggravated.

"If you'd only listened to me when I tried to tell you, we'd be all right," cried Jill, forgetting the she’d thought the marsh-wiggles were the friends of the first Sign herself.

"Yes, and if you hadn't played the fool on the edge of that cliff we'd have both known what to do."

“Well, well- I- that is… That’s… The point is, you ought to have gone and spoken to an old friend at once, just as Aslan said. And now you haven't, and everything is going wrong from the very beginning. No wonder we don’t know which way to turn…”

“That’s enough,” said Peter in a tone that brooked no response, “don’t make it sound as if we’ve no hope left, please. Let’s just go over the Signs again and we’ll try and figure out…”

"Oh, shut up," cut off Jill impatiently. "It's far worse than you think. We've muffed the first Sign, and it said specifically that it was a matter of time!..."

Peter’s annoyance was carefully contained as he tried to answer: “Maybe, but there is no point crying over spilt milk, just help me find a way to fix this!”

Jill barely heard him. “…And now you want to miss the second Sign as well, just because you think it must be the Giants, I swear you’re obsessed with them, can’t you see that you’re wrong about this, you oh-so-mighty King!...”

“I said, enough!” roared Peter at last.

Jill froze in shock. That he would yell at her was… startling.

In the shadows, she heard him take a few deep breaths to calm down.

“Look,” he said at last. “You may well be right about the Signs. But it doesn’t mean we’ve failed yet. We might still be on time. The Gryphons live downstream, in the cliffs by the sea. There is no reason why Fiercebeak shouldn’t be there. It’ll take time, but we can still go and seek him out…”

“And just how far away do they live?” asked Jill, and if her tone was still snippy, it was nevertheless a bit subdued. “We’re already late! If it’s going to take us weeks just to get there…”

“I could go,” came a chirpy voice from their abandoned backpacks a little further.

The two turned as one to stare at the point where they could guess the Frog was lazily lounging.

“I could go,” reiterated Flyswatter, his voice sounding eerily disembodied in the night. “I’m a good swimmer. I wouldn’t have to walk or anything. I can go down the river and be quick about it and find the Gryphons and tell this Fiercebeak fellow to come.”

Jill’s mouth fell in surprise. “But…”

“It is a good idea,” interrupted Peter.

Jill swivelled to stare at him. “But!”

Peter’s silhouette was very still.

“You can’t be serious! What if something happens to him, what if he gets lost or… or eaten… or…”

But Peter said simply: “Thank you, Flyswatter. Be safe.”

“Are you mad?” cried Jill, shocked.

The little Frog jumped, galvanized. “You’re really letting me go? No, seriously? You’re trusting me? Like, with a mission? I’m on a mission! I’m on a mission on behalf of the High King!” he started bouncing all over the place, bursting with excitement, his bulbous eyes suddenly glowing and very, very large.

“A mission,” said Peter in long-suffering, clip tones, “where time is of the essence, Master Frog!”

“Of course!” shouted the excitable fellow. “Of course! Not to worry, Your Majesty! Flyswatter will not let you down! Through danger and perils, I will face every obstacle and overcome every hardship! I will succeed!” he cried dramatically. Then he bounced away and jumped straight off the cliff and into the river, and Jill had to stifle a cry as she suddenly imagined him swept away in the cold, clear waves.

“Are you sure this was a good idea?” she asked Peter unhappily.

Peter sighed and let himself flop down against the hard rock at their back. “He’s smarter than he looks, Jill. And if you’re right and we need Fiercebeak’s help, then Flyswatter is our best chance to make up for lost time.”

“If you say so,” said Jill doubtfully, already fretting inside for their little friend’s safety.

The time spent waiting after that was anything but fun. Without being on the move, they felt the cold keenly and there was nothing to do to pass the long, boring hours; furthermore, they were still both on edge because of their disagreement and they kept snapping at each other for the slightest reason.

To Jill, it seemed as if weeks had gone by at a snail’s pace, but truthfully it was only on the noon of the third day that a shadow flew over their makeshift camp and with a flurry of feathers and a strong smell of wilderness and salt, a magnificent creature landed heavily between Jill and Peter, who jumped to their feet instantly.

It was a glorious flying creature, part eagle and part lion, with the ears of a horse and lethal-looking bird-like talons. When it landed, it teetered awkwardly, as if finding itself on the ground instead of among the clouds was distasteful.

Before its wings had even settled Jill heard a strong intake of breath from the gorgeous creature and then the gryphon said, in a surprisingly deep, gravely voice: “I did not dare believe… welcome back, my King!”

It went down on its knee before Peter, and Jill was rather impressed by this, seeing how many limbs the creature was coordinating to manage the move.

“We have waited and prayed for your return, Your Majesty… ever since the Just King was brought back to Narnia… but when word reached us, we did not dare believe…”

The emotion in the deep voice was thick and made it resound like a huge bronze bell.

Peter was just as solemn and touched as he embraced the big neck: “My dear friend…”

Jill tried to make herself small and kept quiet, forcibly stifling the million questions her curiosity was itching to bombard the newcomer with. She felt rather out of place in this reunion and didn’t want to ruin the moment for anything.

But despite her efforts the seriousness and significance of the atmosphere was completely shattered a moment later by a feeble whining: “And me? Wha’ ‘bout me?” came Flyswatter’s teeth-chattering voice. “I’m half-dead and no-one cares! Don’t you love me no more? After all I’ve done!...” a sniff, “Dangers! Pains! Sweat! Tears! Frozen limbs! And this is all I get for my efforts!”

Jill almost laughed out loud at how pathetic the little Frog looked…

Fortunately it wasn’t long before Flyswatter recovered and by the time he was warmed up by the fire and fed, he’d started boasting about his ‘great adventure’ in his usual excited tones, wanting to make sure Jill understood exactly how heroically he’d braved the chilly currents and how his amazing awesomeness had allowed him to overcome obstacles of unspeakable complicatedness… though Jill was rather sceptical about his claim of having fought a huge pike, no matter how keenly Flyswatter was re-enacting his daring escape!

“And to fly, Jill, to fly!” the Frog cried excitedly. “I cannot begin to say how exciting it is! To be so far from the ground, nothing around you, and _so much wind!_ You just have to try it! It’s exhilarating! _”_

At this point of the tale Jill thought she heard Fiercebeak mutter something along the lines of: “Panic the whole time, and _now_ he says it was thrilling!” and she giggled a little. Flyswatter was like that.

Jill and the Frog ended up spending the whole evening together, while Peter and Fiercebeak caught up with each other. It was clear that the two old friends where overjoyed to be reunited and without meaning to, they were keeping Jill and Flyswatter out of their chatting, simply because they had so much in common that they understood each other without needing full sentences and thus their talks were rather cryptic.

But when the night fell once more it was no longer time for chitchat and with the quick efficiency of soldiers, Peter and Fiercebeak readied themselves for the mission. That led to a brief argument when the Gryphon suggested that Jill should stay back - although he was certainly very polite about it, he made it clear that he didn’t think much of her lack of combat experience, which didn’t endear him to the girl at all - but luckily Fiercebeack wasn’t about to disagree with his King so Peter managed to put a stop to the notion quickly.

Before she knew it Jill found herself on the Gryphon’s back, marvelling at how beautifully warm and soft the feathers felt, her knees tucked under the wings and Peter’s strong arms holding her securely in place.

Then, with a horrid plunge they had taken off, and the wings were making a flurry round her ears, and the night air, cold and damp, was flying in her face. As Fiercebeak wheeled round and started flying northwards a hushing, ruffling sort of wind that carried a hint of rain smell assailed them.

Jill was torn between fright and elation and was very tempted to do like Flyswatter, who didn’t have a problem venting his panic and euphoria with adrenalin-filled screams. Only the fact that, while the little Frog’s cries were easily swept away by the wind, her own would have been much louder and therefore dangerous, kept her from shrieking, though she didn’t know herself if she would have yelled out of terror or glee.

When Fiercebeak launched into a daring manoeuvre though she just had to put a stop to it. "Oh, don't, please!" she cried. "Don't jerk like that. You nearly threw me off."

She heard Peter chuckle behind her but the Gryphon steadied his flight, at least.

They flew in ample circles, wider and wider as they swept the land. Jill couldn’t see a thing, but apparently Fiercebeak had excellent night vision and an amazing eyesight: he kept a running commentary of everything of note he could spot from high above among the clouds and he and Peter were continually discussing his finds and how to continue the search.

Predictably, it didn’t take long for the Gryphon to pinpoint an expanse of land a little further north beyond the Giants’ settlements, where the very ground seemed to be pitch black under the snow. ‘Land of darkness’ indeed.

Peter directed Fiercebeak towards it, despite the Gryphon’s misgivings. Once they landed, however, they found they were rather uncertain about what to do.

Jill couldn’t help shivering and shaking. There was nothing there… that is, there was a lot of rocks and dirt, snow, and shadows, but not much else. It was a desolate landscape and so unbearably cold, it was almost hard to think.

“I suppose we should try and have a look around,” came Peter’s voice, muffled by the cloak he’d bundled around himself. He sounded as uncertain as Jill felt.

“My King, this is madness. I highly doubt anything could survive in such a place, much less hide a kidnapped hatchling! Let us go back to more hospitable land!” said the mighty Gryphon distressed.

“No!” exclaimed Jill. “We’re in the right place, darkness and all. It’s here we’re supposed to look!” She was, at least, sure of this. Now that they’d worked out the clues in the first two Signs properly, she had the utmost confidence in the third. She knew that everything would go well if they just found the key!

“Look for what, Little Lady? There’s nothing to be found here!” retorted Fiercebeak a bit disdainfully.

Jill scowled at him, rather annoyed at his condescending attitude. “We have to find the key the Third Sign talks about!” she insisted stubbornly.

“Really, now! And where, pray tell, are we to look for it?” he asked, his patience thin.

“Under the surface of the world!”

“You don’t say!” mocked her the gryphon.

“Well, that’s what the Sign says!” Jill crossed her arms petulantly. It wasn’t her fault the Signs were so confusing!

“Maybe you remember it wrong,” ventured Peter in a oh-so-reasonable voice.

“I do not!” cried Jill offended, rounding on him. Why was he siding with the gryphon anyway?! Were they all against her? She was the one who’d heard Aslan in the first place!

“Maybe you’re getting confused…” Peter was acting like an adult that tries to make a child see sense. Jill hated it.

“Don’t talk down on me, I’m not a baby! I’m telling you…”

“Well, what does ‘under the surface of the world’ mean, anyway! Are we to dig up every patch of existing land until we manage to find an elusive key?” interjected the Gryphon rather sarcastically.

“I don’t know! I just know what the Lion said…”

“Well, you must be remembering it wrong! I highly doubt the Great Lion would have given us indications that make no sense, therefore it must be that your interpretation is lacking…”

Peter slammed his hands on the nearest, snow-covered stone slab: “That’s quite enough! I…” Something caught his attention and he stopped, watching where his hands lay more closely.

Not noticing, Jill went on in her indignant tirade: “There is nothing wrong with my interpretation! Or my memory! It’s not my fault you can’t figure out what it means! YOU’RE the experts of this world, you know, _I_ haven’t lived here or anything! I just… what are you doing?”

Because Peter had started brushing the snow away and was tracing random lines on the freed, wet stone slab, blatantly ignoring his quarrelling companions.

Or… maybe they weren’t random, after all… he was tracing lines that were etched on the stone already…

“My King?” asked Fiercebeak, perplexed.

Jill tried to see better, but she could make no sense of it.

Peter, however, could and she heard him mutter, as he traced an irregular line a bit to his right: “Therebinthia…”

“Huh?”

“The island of Terebinthia,” he said a little louder. “And here, look. The Seven Isles…” he moved towards his left, tracing a longer line there. “Our eastern coast,” he dragged his finger down the line towards them, “Archenland and Calormen…”

Finally it clicked for Jill: “It’s a map!”

“Yes,” said Peter ruefully, turning to her. “A map of the world.”

Jill lit up: “Under the surface of the world!”

The shared an excited grin and Peter got into position to upturn the stone slab. Jill couldn’t help shooting a smug grin at the insufferable gryphon, though. He had an inscrutable expression but she counted it as a victory nonetheless.

They didn’t find a material key, however, proving the truth of Peter’s words about Aslan’s ways being at times mysterious. Instead, moving the stone set a mechanism on and an opening was revealed in the rocks.

A long, dark corridor descended into darkness, tortuously plunging underground.

It was to small an opening for Fiercebeak, who volunteered to keep watch at the entrance, and Flyswatter was too cold and tired to do more than stutter a ‘G-g-good l-l-luck-k!’ and hide shivering in a sack tied to the Gryphon’s back; thus it was just Jill and Peter that ventured in.

The passage was all carved rock and winding curves, and the temperature seemed to constantly grow as they went down. Peter led Jill further along the same corridor, ignoring all junctions and recesses they passed by. Soon they found traces of the place being inhabited, sometimes even a torch or two set in the stone walls, though not many were lit, and indistinct noises reached their ears; fortunately, they didn’t run into anyone. It seemed whoever ruled the place was counting on the cold to protect their hideout.

Eventually the tunnel opened onto a vast rocky platform, from where they could easily see a much bigger cave beyond and below the edge. A huge gap was dug in its middle, with makeshift stairs carved all around its steep walls, descending even further. The noises they had been hearing were louder and clearer here and unmistakably coming from the bottom of the hole: shouted orders, insults, cries and groans, sharp cracks and thumps and the sounds of wheels on stone, of hammers on rock, of heavy footsteps…

Cautiously, Jill and Peter inched forward to the edge of the rocky platform, careful to keep an eye on their surroundings, in case someone should spot them.

Peering down in the wide chasm, Jill could see what looked like a street from above, with houses carved in the rocks and a pavement of smooth stones arranged in a decorative pattern. It looked unfinished and was filled with activity. Jill furrowed her brows, unable to make sense of what she was seeing, until Peter murmured quietly: “A building site… and a mine, too.”

Then, like when you solve a perception puzzle and something that was totally confusing a moment before is suddenly perfectly clear, Jill could recognize the various tasks a number of creatures were feverishly working on: dragging stone blocks, digging, mixing a whitish substance that might have been mortar, mining, building… it was like a busy beehive.

Almost at the same time she realized two more things that made her gasp aloud: the workers looked miserable… and they were all terribly young! Children and cubs and kits and even a few hatchlings! The only grown ups she could spot were all dressed alike in some sort of dark, heavy uniform and looked like guards… and were shouting orders at the youngsters non-stop. Some even had whips!

She turned to Peter, full of horror: “They’re making the children work! Peter! They… they’re…!”

The High King looked absolutely livid. His fists were clenched tight, his expression grim and tense. He slowly stood up and said in a low voice: “Let’s go, Jill. This has gone on much too long!”

He marched towards one of the stairs and Jill hurried after him.

It was lucky that there was no security to speak of, because he didn’t look like he would have stopped to hide. Still, he proved that he wasn’t so furious that he’d forgotten every caution when he muttered: “I counted seven guards. Can you spot any others?”

Jill scanned the budding town frantically, trying to spot all the guards Peter had seen and check for others, and quickly shook her head: “I think it’s just them…”

Peter nodded sharply. “Good. Then this is what we’re going to do…”

But before he could tell her his plan, something completely unexpected happened.

On the flat roof of a half-finished building at the closer end of the underground road, a short, scrawny figure stood up, straight as an arrow and exuding confidence, and yelled out an insult to the guards that made all seven of them whip around to stare at it in various degrees of fury.

Taking advantage of their distraction, the little figure quickly raised an arm in a commanding gesture and shouted at the top of his lungs: “For Aslan!”

In answer, a bellowed chorus of various battle cries exploded from several hideaways all over the place and a volley of small stones targeted the shocked guards unerringly, almost immediately followed by another one, and another, and another, all accompanied by loud challenging yells.

Jill’s mouth opened in shock!

“Eddie’s son, indeed!” chuckled Peter beside her. “My brother never could stand for injustice.”

She glanced at him: he was glowing with pride. “You think that’s the Prince we’re looking for?” she asked.

Peter smiled widely: “He said the Lion’s name, didn’t he? Besides, he clearly takes after me.”

A change of quality in the racket coming from below them caught their attention again. The young attackers were very determined and their enthusiasm was giving the guards a hard time (and quite a few bruises) but unfortunately it seemed that the seven adults weren’t the only bad guys around: a group of ferocious-looking small creatures wearing the same dark colours as the guards was swarming the attacking kids with viciousness. Jill wondered what they were…

“Let’s go help them. I’ll take care of the guards…” said Peter decisively and strode purposefully away. Jill hurried after him, still shocked at the surprising turn of events and a bit unsure of whether to be scared or excited that she was about to face her first battle.

It took her the time to go down all the length of the stairs before she remembered that she had a bow and arrows and even knew how to use them. When she thought of it, though, she was quick to shoot at the crawling dwarves that were converging on the Prince, hissing threateningly: “Grey dwarves, all! Bite ‘em, slaughter ‘em!” while he valiantly kicked and punched those who got too close.

She didn’t really have the courage to aim _at_ them, no matter how creepy they were, but an arrow striking the stone next to their limbs was a good enough deterrent anyway and soon the young Prince managed to push them off the roof very efficiently. Those who could still move scattered and hid, still hissing and spitting threats.

The Prince climbed down swiftly and shot her a delighted grin. “Thanks!” He stopped next to her, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Who are you, though?” he asked curiously. “I’ve never seen you before!”

Jill straightened and, remembering her manners, hinted at a curtsey. “I’m here with your uncle, the High King,” she informed him primly.

The Prince looked at her oddly. “My _uncle?”_

“That would be me,” said unexpectedly Peter from behind them, in a cheerful voice completely at odds with his grim expression.

Somehow, he’d acquired a mean-looking sword, that he was now brandishing with clear ease.

“Where did you get _that?”_ blurted out Jill.

Peter’s smile was tight: “Borrowed it,” he said with a jerky nod towards something behind him, prompting the two children to look past him.

“Wow!” said the Prince, sounding impressed.

“Eurgh!” was Jill’s comment.

The crumpled and bloodied body of the previous owner of the sword was a gruesome spectacle she would have gladly done without.

“For Narnia, and for Aslan!”

The bellowed cry made her whip around to watch Peter as he charged the last standing guards and her jaw dropped. The clang of metal against metal was louder and louder as a hush gradually spread among the other combatants, dwarves and children alike in awe of the amazing fight taking place in front of them. Jill’s eyes were riveted on Peter as he ducked, spun, darted and rolled, keeping up with five opponents at a time with a complex combination of thrusts, parries and swings. She barely registered the Prince’s admiring shouts, so amazed was she by the fight.

High King Peter was… _magnificent!_

In very short order he’d dispatched all adversary except one, a man-wolf close to seven feet tall. He had hands that were too long to be human and not furry enough to be wolf, and when he spewed insults at Peter, its furry jaws made the words sound thick and strange.

The King’s sword clashed against the man-wolf’s claws and they twisted in a deadly dance around each other, frighteningly close and striking faster than her eyes could follow; but there was no comparison between the King’s strong grace and powerful control, and his enemy’s clumsy, if potent, defence.

Peter gave the other no quarter, hounding him with ferocity; but the vile creature played dirty and used every element of their surroundings to his advantage. Every rock, every handful of dust, turned into a defensive tool in its paws, as the monster tried every trick to temporarily incapacitate its foe, and land a combination of vicious strikes.

Already Peter was bleeding from where the horrid claws had slit his legs, yet he didn’t seem to notice as he gracefully ducked under an overhand sweep and fluidly slashed left and right several times in quick succession, driving his foe back a few paces.

Then, as if in answer to an invisible signal, King Peter launched into a series of lightning-fast strikes, each move flowing into the next flawlessly as if it was all just one long movement. Jill’s eyes were wide with amazement.

“Dad can do that move too!” burst out the excited Prince at her side.

It was so powerful… so frightening… and yet so elegant!

And with a final sharp twist it was over, Peter’s borrowed sword was buried into the furred body of his enemy, who collapsed at the High King’s feet, dead.

Utter silence reigned after the conclusion of the fight, making Peter’s harsh panting sound unnaturally loud.

Slowly, small heads started peeking out from every nook and cranny, kids and cubs emerging from behind boulders and out of holes, some still clutching the stones they’d been fighting with, some looking terrified and unsure. Most seemed not to know whether they should be happy that their tormentors had been defeated, or worried that worse might yet be coming.

Some were sniffling or even openly crying, trying their best to keep as quiet as possible.

Only the Narnian Prince and didn’t look scared at all.

He turned to Jill and asked: “So you’ve come to rescue us?”

“Yes… though you seem to have done a good job of it on your own!” she smiled. “Aslan sent us.” She added.

The Prince’s eyes lit up. “Did He, really?”

The bear cub next to him chimed in: “That’s fantastic! I’m Bibi, by the way.”

“Jill,” replied she politely. “How…”

But she didn’t get to formulate her question, because Peter’s voice resounded powerfully in the cave, in answer to a question someone must have asked him.

“What are we going to do, you ask? Simple,” he said strongly, “Mr. Knadgab here,” he paused to drag out from behind a boulder and into view, with a none-too-gentle shake, a terrified looking creature he was holding tightly, sword threateningly close to its... his?... neck; Jill was sure it had to be a Dwarf, all black hair and gnarled limbs and a big, bulbous nose over an unattractive snarl; he was twisting feebly in Peter’s firm grasp, eyes flitting madly left to right, looking for an improbable escape; Peter ignored him entirely: “Mr. Knadgab will _very kindly_ ” - the tight tone and venomous glare implied a ‘or else’ that made Jill shiver - “lead us all through these tunnels, so we can bypass the lands of the Giants without trouble, and we’ll all go to Narnia!”

A cheer went up from the group of Narnian kids around Jill, but she noticed that those from other countries clapped half-heartedly at best and looked rather scared still.

King Peter smiled gently: “From there we’ll help you go back to your mums and dads, as soon as possible.”

This time the enthusiasm was general and almost deafening.

Jill however was close enough to hear Peter mutter: “And _then_ I’ll have my people secure and seal this horrid place and double the patrols around the borders and possibly send scouts out in the wildlands... can’t believe this happened...”

Then without much ceremony the King hauled two squirrel cubs on his shoulders and picked up a young, dark-skinned boy whose rags were of an unusual style to Jill’s eye and shouted powerfully: “Let’s go!”

Some more cheering was heard, and a lot of scuffling as the older kids started to pick up or help the younger ones.

Jill looked down when she felt her hand being grabbed by a small paw. A tiny hedgehog, shining eyes raised shyly to her, took to swing their joined hands back and forth and said adorably: “I wan’ to wa:k wi’ you!”

Jill smiled fondly at the cub.

On her other side, a little faun was being helped onto the Prince’s back, a mischievous glint in his bright eyes.

It was the sudden change in those eyes, from playful to wide and frightened, that alerted Jill.

She pivoted to look behind her and let out a cry: a pale man with cruel eyes, dressed in the same colours as the other kidnappers, but with his clothes tattered and ruined, was creeping up to them. When he saw he was discovered, he lunged at her ferociously, a curved blade bared and aimed straight at her heart.

Jill screamed again but she didn’t move – didn’t have time – couldn’t react – was frozen with fear…

The Prince beside her thrust out his hand, palm out in a futile gesture of denial. “No!” he yelled.

To Jill’s everlasting shock, the man and his blade were propelled back with unbelievable force and thrust violently against the rocks. There he crumbled to the ground in a heap, unconscious.

Everybody turned very slowly to stare at the Prince.

The boy looked just as stunned as everybody else, hand still raised.

“How did you do that?” whispered Bibi the Bear cub, awed.

“I don’t know…” answered the Prince, astounded. Then a little, euphoric smile appeared on his lips: “…but I sure want to do it again!”

Jill intercepted Bibi’s gaze and their merry laugh burst forth, unstoppable.

When the Prince, with a gentle smile, grabbed her free hand to drag her towards Peter, Jill smiled happily back.

She might get used to this weird other world, after all!


	8. Tumnus

 

_“All things work together for good to them that love God,_  
to them who are the called according to   
his purpose” _Romans 8:28_

 

 

It was like the very sun had been leeched out of the castle, thought Tumnus disconsolately.

Ever since their Little Prince had been kidnapped, everything seemed greyer.

The rescue party had not been able to find the boy, despite their earnest efforts, and it had sowed dread in every heart. Then reports had started trickling in, of young of other families disappearing too.

Prince Corin was devastated. He’d been the one to take Prince Leo out on his and Lord Peridan’s expedition to the northern parts of Narnia: it had seemed a wonderful adventure to the Little Prince and his friends, who shared Prince Leo’s hero-worship of the Archenlander. They had been so excited!

Now the Prince of Archenland blamed himself for the disgrace and was out of his mind with worry and regret. No doubt, if the Palace Healers hadn’t been restraining him and threatening to sedate him, he would have been out there looking as well, from dawn to dusk: he wouldn’t have left a single rock unchecked to find the Little Prince.

He’d been too severely injured however: both Lord Peridan and he, along with every member of the two Princes’ guard, had been struck by poisoned darts that had made them lose consciousness almost instantly. It was a miracle that a passing Heron had noticed the bodies strewn by a brook and raised the alarm. If they hadn’t been found so soon… As it was, Lady Thalia’s cousin, the Leopard Sain, had lost his life to the insidious poison. All the inhabitants of Cair Paravel were mourning him quietly: he had been well liked.

Mellidorina, poor thing, was crying in corners half the time. She kept imagining all sorts of horrors that her Little Prince might be going through… nor was she the only one.

Without Prince Leo there to liven up the castle, playing happily and getting in trouble just as merrily, it was as if any sound was dulled, any light dimmed.

And the King was away at war!

Nothing was right in Narnia.

Tumnus found himself wandering the silent halls with the same aimless desperation he’d felt after the Four Monarchs had disappeared.

Oh, how terribly he had regretted bringing them the news of the White Stag! If only he hadn’t awakened in their Majesties’ hearts the desire to see the mythical creature, perhaps they would not have been lost.

Even when their beloved King Edmund had unexpectedly returned, the joy Tumnus had felt had been genuine, but incomplete. Three thrones remained vacant and Tumnus’ eyes strayed often to the one his dearest friend used to sit on. He missed Queen Lucy’s smile more than he could express.

And now, even what little joy Tumnus had managed to find in the return of the Just King and in the lively boy he’d brought to them, was lost again and melancholy invaded him. He felt as if cheerless cold was sinking into his very bones, that same cold that had trapped Narnia into its grasp under the Witch’s rule, the dreary cold that had almost pushed him to do the unforgivable during the Age of Winter, the very cold that only Queen Lucy’s frank smile and easy friendship had been able to vanish.

And then, astoundingly, unbelievably, word had reached Cair Paravel of a miracle.

The High King was back!

Brought on the wings of Great Blue Herons who claimed to have seen him – “Up north, with the Marshwiggles… looking for the Little Lost Prince, he is! The Great Lion gave him four Signs to find him!” – the piece of news had galvanized the weary Faun.

And not him alone!

The whole castle seemed to shake itself out of its depression. Hope flickered again in everybody’s eyes…

The Magnificent King was returned to them and better still, Aslan had given him indications on how to find Prince Leo!

How anxiously, how restlessly they had waited for more news…!

Nervously doing meaningless tasks, often catching each other’s eyes only for the questions they wanted to spill to choke in their throats: nobody seemed willing to ask out loud what they were all wondering – Was it true? Was their King back? Would he save their Prince? – all were eagerly hoping that every bird on the horizon might be a messenger, that every dawn might shine on their return…

Word from the war front reached them more easily – good news, the Deer messenger assured – the battles had ceased, the diplomatic talks were going well, King Edmund would be returning soon.

But news from the North were scarce… rumours flew wildly, growing out of proportion with every retelling.

The High King had been sighted on the marshes; he was crossing the stream that marked Narnia’s northern border; no, he’d travelled eastwards to the cliffs where the Gryphons lived; no, he was going to infiltrate the Giants’ Capital;… there was a Daughter of Eve with him; no, it was a beard-less Dwarf; no, it was a Calormen lady like Prince Cor’s bethroted;… they were battling the Giants and an army of Fallen Beasts that had allied with them; no, it was another Witch who wanted to trap them in the Earth’s womb forever; no, it was slave merchants from beyond the Lone Islands…

The anxious Narnians who awaited news with bathed breath did not know what to think and speculations ran wild.

King Edmund returned, a treaty signed and peace ensured, but he merely added to the frenzied quality of the guesswork.

It was all their good King could do not to run off to try and help them: only Aslan’s words, that he’d shared with the Council to reassure them, as he had been reassured, that everything would be for the best, held him back. Nevertheless, the wait was unbearable.

But in the end, it was confirmed: they were safe, they were coming!

Eagles were tasked to bring messages back and forth, while the odd group returning from the Wild North traversed their beloved country slowly.

“There are the young of many species among them, Your Majesty,” reported a pompous courier, “they cannot hurry.”

Had King Edmund had it his way, he’d have been the one travelling to meet them; but Mellivorina and Lady Arethil, blessed their sensible souls, talked him out of it.

“Much good it would do them, to come back to a cold and empty castle!...” would say the trusted Nanny. “What of the injured among them?...There are preparations to be made, Your Majesty!”

And the beautiful Nymph, who capably took on the role of First Lady of the castle in the absence of the rightful Queens, would gently remind him: “There are decisions that cannot wait, My Liege… Where are we to host them? How should we entertain them? And we shall have to contact the families of those who are not Narnians… how are we to explain what happened?...”

King Edmund had reluctantly agreed that he was needed here to handle things and started organizing their welcome, turning the castle upside down to make sure everything was ready.

From the restocking of the Healers’ Wing and the cleaning out of all the guests’ rooms to the arranging of diplomatic missives and possibly delegations to the neighbouring nations, he threw his nervous energies in completing or supervising countless tasks, big and small, as well as in dealing with the thousand or so little emergencies and problems that kept cropping up. Yet his hope and worry mingled and churned so badly in his heart that they made him often curt with his subjects and at times quite unbearable.

Tumnus had been the only one who’d got him to brighten up a little, when he’d told him: “Do not worry so, Your Majesty, your brother has everything well in hand, I am sure… he is the High King, after all!”

King Edmund had smiled; then he’d sighed in exasperation, seeing a Fox and a Satyr dropping a carved blanket-chest they were moving to another room and start bickering over whose fault it was.

He’d shaken his head and sheepishly confessed to Tumnus: “I wish Susan was here. She’d know what all needs be done and how to do it properly! There was no running around like headless chicken, when she was the one organizing things here… everything was smoothly and beautifully done… By the way, my friend, have you managed to understand what those Squirrels believe they’re doing?”

Indeed, a group of pert Squirrels were dancing and leaping to and fro in great excitement, and generally getting in everybody’s way, and the Faun, like his King, was hard pressed to find any use in their silliness.

At last everything was ready and the returning party was drawing close.

Tumnus volunteered for the unenviable task of keeping company to his increasingly frantic King while they waited for the group to approach; everybody else was too edgy.

No help for instance came from Philip, the old friend that King Edmund insisted on mounting (though not in Battle!) despite how frail he’d grown from age: the elderly Talking Horse was as impatient and nervous as his friend and King.

Then again, Tumnus himself - like everybody else! – was waiting with bathed breath to see with his own eyes that what they’d been told was true: that Peter the Magnificent was coming Home – that their Little Prince was alright…

And finally, finally! They were there!

There was no keeping the Just King any longer – he and Philip were out of the tall gates in the blink of an eye and sprinting towards them; as if it was a signal, all of the Narnians in the castle – Beasts and Fauns, Dryads and Hamadryads, Centaurs and Dwarves – were pouring out onto the pale green and straw coloured winter lawns, cheering and bellowing their welcomes, yelling almost as loud as the varied group that was coming up to them – children and cubs, kits and hatchlings, and then all the people that had joined the odd procession while it made its way through the countryside, families and friends and just curious onlookers sharing in the happiness…

And finally…

There he was - Prince Leo was running towards his father with all the speed his legs allowed him and King Edmund was swinging him up into his arms and twirling him around and around and laughing and crying at the same time…

And then…

Tumnus would never forget the moment the Just King lifted his eyes from the son he was still hugging to meet his brother’s loving gaze.

In their eyes shone tenderness and fierce devotion, hope and wonder and love so strong it took Tumnus’ breath away.

The crowd had grown hushed. All those who were present felt privileged to have witnessed such a reunion and they quieted in respect.

Then the two Kings let go of each other and turned to their people, and stood side by side like they used to long before, tall and proud and merrily laughing.

As one, their subjects bared their heads and bended their knees, saluting their Kings.

Then someone let out a joyous whoop; a moment later such cheering and shouting, such jumps and reels of joy, such hand-shakings and kissings and embracings of everybody by everybody else broke out that tears came into Tumnus’s eyes.

The celebration that ensued was unforgettable, a glorious day that seamlessly morphed into a night to remember.

Royal Feasts in Narnia were always wonderful, full of friends and foods, laughter and dances, cheer and warmth… but there were a few that stood out among all others.

Tumnus remembered them well, for each was a precious and treasured memory.

The Four Monarch’s Coronation party… the First true Christmas after the Witch had been defeated… the official Presentation of Prince Leo to all of Narnia…

This promised to be just as memorable.

Till long after the sunset had died away, and the stars had come out, there was dancing, and laughing, and vivacious music pouring through the livened halls, fiddles and flutes and drums whose sounds mingled with the rhythmical thump of several feet and flew over the grinning merrymakers and out into the night, until it met and mingled with the stranger, sweeter, and more piercing music of the sea people, come to welcome their Royals back.

Everybody joined in the bliss: Dryads with leafcrowned hair floating behind them, Dwarfs all dressed in their finest clothes,with fur-lined hoods and golden tassels, all sorts of people coming out of the trees in showers – chirpy Squirrels, watchful Owls, Bears and Badgers, Cheetahs and Cats, Hedgehogs waddling as fast as their short legs would carry them, proud Mice anhe wouldn’t have left a 

…and many, many others, all happily enjoying the marvellous food and the flowing wine (though the young ones were given milk and bramble juice) and the light spilling from the beautiful chandeliers, until the stars were fully visible in the sky and the Moon gazed down upon them.

How could they not? There was so much to celebrate!

To have the Just King back from war, safe and sound and victorious moreover, was a relief for everybody and cause for merriment in itself.

To have Prince Leo among them once more, where he belonged, was a joy – and nobody could hide their smiles at the gleeful screeches and sounds of childish laughter that came from wherever the Little Prince had roped most of the rescued youngsters into a furiously paced and fun-filled game of tag, nor did they stop their twinkling eyes from belying the disapproving head-shaking the cubs’ shenanigans provoked.

And to see the High King sit regally on his throne, magnificent and majestic once more, was filling everybody with a sense of rightness and happiness.

Tumnus drifted among the gathered people with a small smile on his face, his heart singing with contentment again.

He watched the young Fauns and Satyrs launch in fast-paced dances filled with jumping; and the Matrons coo at the children and scold them for running wildly and feed them honeyed sweets; and the High King be swamped by cherishing welcomes and well-wishers, for everyone wanted to touch him and make sure he was really there; and the new Daughter of Eve, Lady Jill, ask so many questions she herself ended up laughing at her own eagerness; and Prince Corin, looking immensely relived, indulge the Little Prince by listening to the recount of his amazing adventure and grin hugely at the obvious embellishments…

At one point, glancing out of a tall window toward the sea, Tumnus even saw the silhouettes of King Edmund and the Great Lion walking side by side on the moonlit shore.

They truly were blessed on this night.

Yet Tumnus sighed.

Something was missing, something precious and wonderful, and he felt the absence keenly. More, it seemed, than anybody else… and more than ever, tonight, amidst all the cheer. And he wondered, where were their Queens tonight? What was their Valliant Lucy doing?

After that, things settled easily into some sort of normalcy.

The two Kings fell back without a hitch into the routines of when they ruled together. They were clearly happy to be reunited and it warmed everybody’s heart to see them together.

They shared duties and burdens with the naturalness born of years of practice and more, of true respect and admiration for each other. They complimented and supported each other flawlessly: King Edmund was there to face his brother’s occasional fits of temper and help him stay calm and level-headed, easily stepping into his old role of his brother’s most trusted confidant and ensuring his brother and King would never doubt himself or his decisions, once made; King Peter was ready to lend his strength to his brother, his innate protectiveness and attentiveness guiding him to watch over his brother and fellow King’s health and happiness like no-one else was truly able to.

They were also, Tumnus suspected, a great source of comfort for each other, as they could share playful banter that invariably lightened their moods like it would have been impossible with any of their subjects.

They teased each other a lot too – especially about their odd age differences, even though most Narnians had simply taken it all in stride: after all, King Edmund had returned younger than when he’d left, so why would it be any different for King Peter? Aslan’s will could be odd like that.

The two Kings however seemed to understand the situation a little more, if not completely, from what Tumnus had overheard; and they found it hilarious.

King Edmund mischievously teased his brother about ‘the advantages of being a younger brother’ – like not having to attend too many boring political functions and being regularly underestimated by your opponents, as well as never being quite too old to get away with things that instead leave your older brother sputtering in indignation.

Peter retaliated by mocking him about greying hair (even though it would be decades before the Just King would have to worry about such things!) and being a ‘serious, responsible father’, as well as jokingly insisting that he should take precedence through a door... “No, no, you go first, dear brother: age before beauty!”

Tumnus, like many of those who’d been close friends of the Monarchs’ during their first reign, merely shook their head with fondness at the two’s antics.

Prince Leo was enthusiast of his newly-acquired Uncle and more energetic than ever, to his father’s desperation and delight at once; young Lady Jill, the Daughter of Eve who’d come with the High King and had easily become part of the Prince’s group of friends, was a lively addition to the Court and Mellivorina happily mothered her along with the Little Prince.

Everybody got slowly but surely back to their usual routines, from Lady Arethil fretting about renewing the Kings’ wardrobes to the palace guards exchanging jokes over their spiced wine, from the Squirrels squabbling among themselves with incessant chatter to Mrs Cottontail, the Housekeeper, nagging everybody for their laundry…

Yet everybody had a spring in their steps and a readiness to their smiles: it was as if the whole country was glowing now that Peter the Magnificent and Edmund the Just sat once more side by side on their thrones.

Tumnus wasn’t surprised. His father had told him countless times, when he was but a faunlet: “A country and its people are only as healthy, only as prosperous, as their king!”

It had been one of the reasons he had fought so fiercely against the White Witch, Tumnus recalled.

He couldn’t help reflecting, however, that Narnia had four monarchs instead of one, and all four of them were essential to the life and vitality of the kingdom. King Edmund’s return had been enough to revitalize the country; King Peter’s presence had brought back a new level of happiness. Oh, if only the Queens would return as well…

The High King had taken over a good share of the country’s ruling and was spending a considerable effort in strengthening the northern borders and restructuring the patrols all over Narnia.

“Nothing like this should be allowed to happen again!” he’d exclaimed vehemently at the Council, when he’d told where and how he’d found the courageous children.

Oreius was in his element, inspecting troops, reorganizing supply trains, supervising the training grounds…

In the meanwhile, King Edmund and the Falcon Rowan, the Head Diplomat, took upon themselves the task of returning the young ones to their countries and families. With the High King once more on his throne, his brother could afford to leave Narnia for longer periods of time and it was a chance to strengthen or renew diplomatic ties with most neighbouring countries.

King Edmund had always enjoyed the art and practice of conducting negotiations and he’d always thrived in the complex environment of diplomacy, where it was possible to spend a week talking and not really saying anything at all and every single word had so many meanings that more often then not, it was what wasn’t said that was of more importance. Now his ability was shining brighter than ever.

It soon became rather common to hear that King Edmund was returning from such and such country, where he’d gone to accompany a child, with new and improved agreements of open communications and trade with Narnia having been promoted, or a lower tariff on reselling imports from Calormen being about to be implemented, or a nobleman and his family having agreed to come to Cair Paravel as Ambassadors…

On some of those travels the Just King took his son along. Prince Leo invariably came back with stars in his eyes, incessantly babbling to his friends about the wonders he’d seen and showing off whatever extravagant souvenir he’d managed to acquire. Mellivorina was exasperated by the amount of junk he was managing to collect in his rooms, but both King Edmund and King Peter just laughed at the little one’s quirks with great fondness.

Plus, the amazing travels had the added advantage of keeping the Little Prince from ‘experimenting’ with whatever power he claimed to have discovered in those horrid caves.

Most grown-ups were sceptic about his assertions, but all the children that were with him had confirmed that he had – somehow - thrown off a warrior with but a thrust of his hand. Lady Jill and Bibi the Bear Cub adamantly claimed it was magic.

Prince Leo was absolutely determined to figure it all out and as a result, whenever they couldn’t involve him in something more interesting, there would be some highly dangerous ‘experimenting’ in Cair Paravel… often with completely inexplicable results!

It got so bad that Tumnus proposed to the Kings to teach the child to play the Narnian flute, like he himself was quite accomplished at doing, as a way to channel this strange ‘gift’ into something that didn’t involve breaking, smashing, pushing or dropping anything else.

The music of the fauns was peculiar - wild, intensely sweet and yet just the least bit eerie too – but most importantly, it was filled with magic, good magic. A particularly fine musician, like Tumnus, could influence the emotions of his listeners, reaching into their minds and souls, but that ability was rare: however even the least skilled players could use their notes to shape the elements – making the flames in the hearth twist into the actors of a tale, making the whirlwinds of air dance with leaves and petals and sunbeams…

To everybody’s surprise, Prince Leo turned out to be quite skilled at the art. He picked up the basics of the Narnian flute in no time at all and from the very first tunes he played, they could all feel that he was weaving magic with the music, albeit uncertainly and without much control. That would come with age and practice anyway.

Not long after the Little Prince’s first short concert for his family and the Court, Tumnus overheard King Edmund tell his brother in a resigned tone: “I must accept it… my son has magic of his own.”

“That’s not a bad thing, Ed,” reassured him the High King.

“Wait to judge until he’s managed to set fire to the tapestries in _your_ room!” retorted King Edmund with a mischievous laugh.

Luckily, the Prince was now at an age when it was appropriate to start teaching him the arts of combat, as befit a Narnian Knight. Compared to the awesomeness of swords, even magic meant little to the energetic boy.

Of course, he’d tried to insist that his ‘gift’ could be an unparallel advantage in battle – but Sir Keines, the Weapon Master Centaur who’d become his primary instructor, refused to even let him consider the possibility of mixing trainings: “You’ll stick exactly to what I teach you, Your Highness, namely sword work, and the standard forms of it too, until you’re good enough to disarm Oreius, if not your father!” he’d said sternly.

Thus life went on happily, land and people going about their business in peace and harmony.

Seldom had the Narnians been so happy.

The only one who could not bring himself to enjoy the peace properly was Tumnus himself.

Their country was joyful… yet to Tumnus, all the general contentment just highlighted and made it harder to bear what was still missing, and it was hard for him not to wish that it had been the Valliant Queen who’d returned, rather than her brothers, no matter how welcome their beloved Kings were.

It was perhaps only fair then, that it be Tumnus who witnessed the most amazing thing one spring afternoon: a random cupboard door opening apparently on its own and a golden haired girl poking curiously out, and then lighting up in sheer joy and shouting happily: “Susan! Susan, you won’t believe this! It’s Narnia – _our_ Narnia! Come, oh, do come quick!”

Then she caught sight of him, stunned speechless where he was, rooted to the spot in amazement, and she rushed out, crying happily: “Mr Tumnus! Oh, my dear, dear Mr Tumnus, it is really you!”

And he could do nothing but catch her when she threw her arms around him, and babble: “Q-queen L-Lucy! Lion’s Mane, it’s you!”

For indeed it was the Valliant Queen, as radiant as ever, looking little older than when he’d first laid eyes on her, so long ago during the Age of Winter, and just as sweetly grinning, as luminous and as warm as the summer sun.

Before he knew it, they were holding each other by both hands and dancing round and round for joy – and that’s how they were found, by the High King who’d come up to see what the ruckus was about and by Queen Susan who was stepping out of the cupboard…


	9. Lucy

 

_Proverbs 15:13: A happy heart  
makes the face cheerful_

 

 

Lucy laughed gaily at the flabbergasted faces all around her. It seemed not even the time needed for retiring to the private parlour that had once been one of her favourite rooms, back when she was Queen here, had been enough for her brothers and their Court to get over their shock.

Then again, Susan and the others who’d come along with her looked just as flabbergasted!

Although she could admit that stepping out of a cupboard was rather odd, she couldn’t help but think Peter, Susan and Edmund, at least, should have remembered how they walked back and forth through that wardrobe in the Professor’s old house…

Really, it was much more strange that Edmund somehow looked older than Peter! Or that they were so much older than her now! Or that little Jill Pole, that she’d befriended back in England, was now living here at Cair Paravel and was known by all as Lady Jill the Bold!

She couldn’t wait to have ‘a talk’ about their adventures. She was sure whatever they had to tell her would be as amazing as her own voyage had been!

The only one not fazed by the whole situation seemed to be the old man, dressed in a red robe and barefoot, who had slipped into the room discreetly and was watching them all with amusement in his eyes, for all appearances oblivious to the odd looks his chaplet of oak leaves and curiously carved staff were attracting. Lucy wondered if the old Magician would ever truly be surprised by anything they did; but then, Coriakin had lived a very long time.

She spotted him giving her nephew a wink while they were getting to their seats and was struck quite suddenly by how _weird_ the entire idea of being an _aunt_ was. Edmund – a father! She barely knew what to think of it.

Prince Leo was a handsome and lively boy, though, and just a little older then she herself had been when she first stepped in Narnia; she hoped that she would have the time to get to know him soon. So far, he seemed absolutely fascinated with her and wouldn’t leave her side, which Lucy found adorable.

She caught Tumnus’ eyes and smiled genuinely at her oldest Narnian friend. It was so good to be Home!

Thinking back on her life, Lucy knew she’d been very lucky.

First she’d been born into a wonderful family, with the best siblings someone could hope for, and even when war had taken her Dad away and her Mum had been forced to send them to the country to keep them safe, they had remained together and they’d always known they could count on each other.

Then she’d stumbled on a wondrous land in a wardrobe, and if the beginning of their adventures there had been a dark one – she sadly remembered Edmund’s part in it, and the terrible night Susan and she had spent weeping and grieving on the Stone Table, and the horrifying fear of being unable to save Mr. Tumnus and the other statues first, and Edmund later… - the years after that, however, had been hands down the most fortunate, happy times she could dream of.

It had been hard to be exiled back to her childhood body when the time had come, but she trusted Aslan implicitly and she knew that He had a very good reason for this, even if she couldn’t see it clearly.

And just like she’d always known, He’d called them all back in the end, even if in different times and ways.

She smiled wider as she looked around happily: her unexpected nephew sitting close to her, impatient to hear her tale, with Jill and his other friends close by; her stunned brothers with big grins and lots of questions; Mr. Tumnus, her dear friend, with his eyes sparkling with sheer joy, and the other good friends from her days as Valiant Queen welcoming her; Susan with her kind husband and all the other friends from the Dawn Treader… even Eustace was there, recently Undragoned and a much better company than he used to be! Though it didn’t seem to surprise her brothers… hmm… she suspected there was another interesting story there… but hers came first.

She took a deep, satisfying breath and started narrating: “It all began in the small back room upstairs that Aunt Alberta gave me to stay in, and where the most beautiful painting you can imagine was hung, of a ship sailing straight towards the watcher…”

The Dawn Treader was beautiful in reality too, with her gilded prow shaped like the head of a dragon with wide-open mouth and her purple sail. Lucy loved how the rich colour shone in the sun, stretched by the wind, when the ship sped through the glorious blue waves, full of greens and purples where the sunlight fell on them and darker blue from the shadow of the vessel on the other side.

She’d come to know the ship well during the days at sea, but when she’d first been hoisted aboard, she’d been too surprised to take in any of the lovely details.

“Imagine my shock when I found myself plunging into that water, which was quite a bit colder than it looked in the picture, by the way! … I could hear shouting going on from the ship, and see heads crowding together above the bulwarks, ropes being thrown, and then finally I was hauled up on board the ship, blue with cold and shivering!... Though poor Eustace looked even more miserable, and completely gob-smacked too!” She laughed in remembrance. “He couldn’t get over his shock at meeting true Narnians… his surprise was nothing to mine, though, when I looked over to the cabins doors and spotted none other than our Susan!”

King Caspian, from the armchair he had made himself comfortable on, across the room from her, laughed: “Not as big a shock as ours when we realized another of the Queens of Legend had appeared out of the blue!”

Everybody turned to look at the golden-headed teen, who suddenly blushed and straightened on his seat, endearingly self-conscious under the scrutiny of her brothers.

She refrained to laugh at her friend: after all, for a Narnian of his time, it was like meeting King Arthur come back to Britain!

So, taking pity on the kind-hearted young King, Lucy quickly rushed on with her tale, recalling how Susan had fussed over her, demanding she drink some spiced wine and calling for someone to bring her a coat to wrap her up and exclaiming over her…

“…and it was so normal, so… so _Susan_ , that it took me ten good minutes to realize that she looked much older than she should have!”

“We’ve known for a long while that Narnian time flows differently from ours,” interjected Susan amusedly, from where she was sitting next to the tall, dark-haired man that was garnering some very… _interesting_ … looks from her brothers, much to Lucy’s amusement. “We have some very good examples right here, I dare say!” she added, nodding gracefully to Peter and Edmund, who shared a sheepish glance.

Everybody laughed, and Lucy shook her golden curls mock-petulantly: “But still!”

It had, indeed, been quite a shock to discover how much time had passed – what her sister had gone through, what _Narnia_ had gone through… - so much so that she’d had to give herself some time to compose herself, sipping the wine and enjoying the warmth going right down to her toes while she tried to sort out her thoughts.

Thankfully by then Eustace had been making a spectacle of himself, spluttering and spitting and being sick all over and crying of all things, so nobody had given her much notice.

“Poor Eustace had a hard time adjusting to the situation,” she commented aloud. Hard time… now that was an understatement if she’d ever used one! The most coherent of his shouts had been the insistence on being put ashore at the next station… “He kept shouting ‘Let me go. Let me go back. I don't like it.’ And not even Susan could get him to calm down, and then he spotted Sir Reepicheep and everything went downhill.”

Everybody turned to look at Eustace, who went very red in the face and sank in his chair, mumbling unintelligibly.

A courteous cough directed the attention away from the poor boy and to a Mouse who stood ramrod straight on its hind legs. Lucy smiled at the brave Knight: he was about two feet high, with very dark, almost black, fur and the thin band of gold which stood out against it, passing round its head under one ear and over the other, with a long crimson feather stuck in it, made a truly bold and striking effect.

She remembered well how charmed she’d been when Susan had introduced him to her and he’d gallantly put forward his left leg, drawn back his right, bowed over her hand and piped: “My humble duty to your Majesty” like a perfect courtly knight.

He truly was an admirable Talking Beast, and rightly the leader of the Talking Mice of Narnia. She could clearly picture him, sword drawn, assaulting the various enemies they’d faced, or, a frown of concentration on his snout, challenging her to chess on the little bench in the stern: equally gallant in either situations.

Now he addressed the gathered people in his shrill, piping voice, standing ramrod straight, with its left paw rested on the hilt of a sword very nearly as long as its tail: “With Your Majesties’ consent,” he said clearly with an elegant bow, “while my friend’s behaviour was, at the time, less than courteous, it is also well into the past. I would ask that the matter not be rehashed, for it is truly of no consequence.”

“Well said, Reep,” acquiesced Caspian and Lucy, spotting the grateful look in Eustace’s eyes, added smiling: “As generous as always, Sir Mouse,” because she remembered very well how her cousin had shouted ‘Oh! Ugh! What on earth's that! Take it away, the horrid thing’ and accused him of being ‘a vulgar performing animal’: she knew it was really kind of Reepicheep to wave the matter away. When it had happened, he’d wanted to challenge Eustace to a duel!

Peter set the matter to rest when he nodded regally: “Indeed, well spoken, Sir Mouse, and I can see now why my Royal Sister introduced you as the most gallant and chivalrous of all the Talking Beasts of Narnia.”

Reepicheep looked at a loss for words at the compliment, and kept twirling his whiskers to give himself some composure.

Lucy decided it was time to move on with the story, so she called back attention to herself: “Caspian offered to take Eustace to a cabin and Susan hurried me to her own so I could change and what with one thing and another, I very soon felt as much at home as if I had been on the Dawn Treader for weeks. I was quite sure we were in for a lovely time… and I was right! But as you can imagine, I was right curious about where we were heading and why…”

Everybody (except those who already knew, of course) leaned forward eagerly: “So? What did you do then?” asked Edmund’s son, his big green eyes shining with curiosity and anticipation.

Lucy couldn’t help but smile back: it was disconcerting to have a nephew so close to her physical age and it was bewildering to think of Edmund as a dad at all, but she could see that this little Prince was a lively, enthusiastic and smart boy, and if the expressions on him and his friends when they looked at each other were anything to go by, with a big heart. She already felt that they would be good friends in time.

“I went looking for Susan, naturally,” she answered, grinning at him, “and found her with everybody else except Eustace on the forecastle, watching the horizon. The sea was so beautiful that for a moment, I almost forgot what I wanted to ask!”

And she had: blue waves flecked with foam, and paler blue sky, both spreading without a break in every directions, had captivated her, and renewed the bubbling excitement that had awakened in her the moment she’d seen the ship in the picture move.

“Luckily Susan knows me well…” – the two sisters shared a knowing grin – “and filled me in on her own, about where we were and about the Oath they’d sworn on the day of Caspian’s coronation…”

Lucy trailed off, a little unsure how to properly present it all, as it needed some background to be understood.

A polite cough caught everybody’s attention: “If I may?” asked Caspian with a frank smile.

She nodded quickly and the blond King gathered his thoughts for a moment: “It is rather a long story, I’m afraid. Perhaps the best starting point is to say that when I was a child my uncle, Miraz, managed to convince my father, who had always had his heart set on exploring the seas, to leave the kingdom in his – that is, Miraz’ - care and set sail to explore the unknown, Eastern Seas beyond the Lone Islands. He also insisted that he needed to take his seven closest friends with him – for ‘his protection’, supposedly.”

Here Caspian made a face: “This was how he effectively got rid of my father and of all the Lords who might have taken my part after his disappearance, and thus he easily usurped the throne – he had no opposition to speak of!”

"Yes," said Susan grimly, "and none of them ever came back. Caspian was a child back then and couldn’t do anything… and the consequence," she sighed sadly, “was civil war.”

There were dismayed gasps all around the room at this, but she shook her head gracefully: “No, let us hear Lucy’s tales of our Voyage first. I’ll explain what happened better later… there is no need to worry, after all, for all is in the past now and Narnia is peaceful and happy once more,” she concluded, smiling at the worried expressions on her brothers' faces.

“And strong,” added Caspian without bothering to hide his pride: “We have renewed many alliances and we gave those troublesome giants on the frontier such a good beating last summer that they pay us tribute now.”

Lucy stifled a laugh when she heard little Jill, who’d been remarkably quite so far, groan and grumble about ‘troublesome Kings and their obsession with Giants’ from Prince Leo’s other side, and caught Peter’s fondly exasperated look. She couldn’t wait to hear _that_ tale…

"Right. Well,” said Caspian, bringing them back to the topic, “on my coronation day, with Aslan's approval, I swore an Oath that, once I established peace in Narnia, I would sail east myself for a year and a day to find my father and his friends, or… or to learn of their deaths… and avenge them if I could.”

All were solemn at his words, contemplating the young King with thoughtful respect. Such an oath, blessed by Aslan, was a serious matter and it spoke of Caspian’s bravery and nobility of spirit.

“He made the Oath not as Caspian, but as King of Narnia,” added Susan softly, serenely.

Everybody understood, except for Eustace and the younger ones. Catching Jill’s confused gaze, Lucy kindly explained, not at all surprised when three other pair of children’s eyes intently focused on her: “An Oath worded like that would require not only Caspian himself, as a person, to fulfil it, but anyone who was King or Queen of Narnia at the time of the Oath. They are all bound to uphold his word. That’s why they’re travelling eastward with him!”

“One could argue that we all are bound by the same promise, or at the very least, bound to help them fulfil it – all of us who are Rulers of our beloved country,” interjected Edmund with the deep, thoughtful tone Lucy had always jokingly dubbed his ‘Law Expert’ voice. “After all, once a King or Queen in Narnia …” he grinned, and Lucy and Peter chorused with him: “Always a King or Queen!”

There was a general laughter, but for once, Lucy didn’t join it wholeheartedly. Susan’s voice had not been there, and it should have.

It was just one more instance, one more evidence of the distance she had felt between her sister and herself for a while now. She was at a loss to explain it, but… Susan had changed, and while that was expected, the fact that she’d grown cold and remote from her own sister, was not. Nor was it good.

Lucy had been confused and hurt by her sister’s behaviour more than once throughout their journey.

She remembered a time when the two of them used to be more than sisters. When they had been each other’s staunchest support, Susan helping her younger sister to stay focused and serious, Lucy managing to remind her older sister of the importance of fun and relaxation. A time when they were each other’s first choice of someone to rely on. When Susan would have never treated her like a little girl or forgotten that Lucy had always been the one to see further, to see truer, and be right about things that weren’t apparent at first glance. When their quiet chats were a cherished moment of reassurance and affection between two equals that knew, beyond any doubt, that their trust and love for each other was unbound.

None of that remained.

Lucy had had to clamp down on her bottom lip and will herself not to cry too many times to count during this journey, all because Susan was too wrapped up in her own life – in her responsibilities, in her _husband_ , in adjusting to the different Narnia she now ruled – to notice how much Lucy missed her, how much she longed for the way they had once been… to once more be not just Susan’s little sister, but her best friend.

It was too bad Susan didn’t seem to miss her at all.

“Be that as it may,” said Susan in an amused tone, oblivious – as always – to her sister’s silent heartbreak, “we set sail with this goal and had been travelling for little more than a month when Lucy and Eustace joined us, having sailed more than four hundred leagues from Narnia, with stops in Galma for a tournament and Redhaven on the isle of Brenn for replenishing our supplies.” She smiled: “They arrived just in time to reach the Lone Islands…”

Eustace’s muttered “Nasty place” came out louder than the boy had intended and it naturally sparked everybody’s curiosity again, so Lucy shook her cheerless thoughts away.

It wasn’t the time to ponder yet again how things could have turned out so wrong between her and Susan, or what all she could – should – have done differently.

It had been very rare for her to find herself out of her element. Edmund had always claimed that it was her most amazing gift: the way she remained herself with spontaneity in any situation, be it preparing dinner with their mother or dancing with the fawns, sitting on a school desk or on a throne, playing in the sun or kneeling among the wounded. She knew she had a knack for finding cause for enthusiasm and joy in anything she did and that her solar nature had made her welcome wherever she’d gone.

She never would have imagined that her own sister could make her uncomfortable one day.

But, on the other hand, she didn’t need much to be happy while exploring the high seas on an adventuring boat: just the fact that the voyage was in Narnia made it all perfect. A Narnia with Aslan. The loss of her close relationship with her adored sister was less keen when she felt Him close.

As usual, thinking of the Great Lion brought a radiant smile on her face and she picked up her narration with renewed enthusiasm.

Here and there she was interrupted by a few lively comments from those who had lived through their misadventure with the slave traders: “And we ought to have hanged every mother's son of them!” cursed Reepicheep, with a sulking Eustace nodding along vigorously: “Ghastly, filthy man, bet he’d never heard of Geneva Convention for humanitarian treatment of prisoners… food was frightful…"

She quickly explained how chance had brought Caspian to find Lord Bern, as well as his ingenious plan to remove the despicable Governor from his office and put a stop to the horrid slave market in the Lone Islands.

“He told me that he had had enough of the sea and that he was happy with his wife and children and the the life he’d made for himself in Avra,” commented Caspian, “but I could find him often on the highest point of his estate, looking down on the eastern ocean… I wonder if he regretted staying behind…”

After the Lone Islands, came the ‘real adventure’, as Reepicheep would say: the start of their journey in unexplored parts.

Lucy knew her brothers and friends would love to hear of the strange lands and even stranger creatures they’d met roaming the glittering eastern sea and she was more than happy to oblige them.

She’d always loved to tell tales as much as she’d enjoyed listening to them and during her years in Narnia, she’d had many chances of doing both. She knew how to capture her listeners and bring them along with her words in such a way that they could almost see and feel what she described. From start to finish, her audience was riveted, gasping and laughing at all the right places…

Of course, she didn’t tell them _everything_.

She didn’t tell them how hard it was for her to cope being in a child’s body now that she was back to her place and role, now that she _felt_ an adult once more. In a way, it was harder than in England, where she was just frustrated: here, to be overlooked… hurt.

It hurt how the sailors, despite being unfailingly polite, patronized her and treated her like a child to indulge and didn’t take her seriously; it hurt especially when her long-earned competence in matters of healing was dismissed out of hand, albeit with kind and respectful words.

It wasn't about the 'disrespect', so to speak. Formalities and deference had never mattered to her and they didn't still: she could have quite happily enjoyed casual friendships with her travel companions, with none of the ceremony Susan had always insisted on; but it was not in her nature to turn a blind eye to someone who was suffering, for whatever reason, and to be denied the chance of helping out of prejudice against her perceived age was something that brought tears of frustration to her eyes.

Most of all, it hurt how Susan had – perhaps unconsciously – done the same, forgetting the camaraderie of confidantes they’d shared once upon a time and being too caught up with being a Queen again, being an adult, being married: but this, above all, she would not tell anyone.

She felt, and regretted, how things had changed irrevocably between them, but did not see how anyone could help it. She still loved Susan immensely and always would, but she was just her sister now, and no longer her best friend. It saddened her… but she would come to accept it - in time.

She voiced none of this however.

After all, she’d gone through most of it twice already, first when she’d been crowned at the age of eight, and naturally, wasn’t taken seriously as Queen, then when she’d been returned to her eight-years-old life in England. She had managed, then, to impress and awe those who had underestimated her whenever it truly mattered: she would again. And when it wasn't so important, she could cope with being carefree and light-hearted like everybody seemed to expect.

Susan, to Lucy’s immense joy, had given her the beautiful little diamond flask, still more than half full of the magical cordial which would heal almost every wound and every illness, the precious Gift she had received on her first Narnian Christmas and that had, apparently, remained waiting for her return for all those centuries; but although it would only take a drop, she remembered that Peter had very strictly charged her not to carry it commonly and to keep it only for great emergencies, so she had spent a lot of effort to learn other ways to ease the sufferings of those around her.

It paid off now in more ways then one: she had not demanded nor expected anything, but she had started to just _be there_ whenever healing was needed, dressing a wound in such a way as to prevent infection, soothing a burn with a clean clothe wet in cool water and chamomile, offering lavender oil to treat sunburns and comfrey to reduce the inflammation from sprains and broken bones… and little by little, she had seen the crew change their perception of her; little by little she had felt more accepted, more recognized, and slowly, the look of reverence in the many eyes that sought her out was no longer just a reflection of her being related to Susan, the respect with which her words were listened to was once again what had been during her reign.

It was easier, then, to let her most child-like traits – her curiosity, her open-heartedness, even her mischievousness – run free, knowing that if her more serious and solemn side was needed, she would be able to make herself heard.

As had been the case when they ran into the Darkness.

She still shivered in remembrance of the most terrifying of all the ventures they’d faced.

From afar, it had looked like a simple dark mountain rising out of the sea on their port bow, but its blackness had been disconcerting and frightening. The world around it was bathed in golden sunlight, but where it was, the light vanished altogether into solid blackness, not with a sharp dividing line perhaps, but nevertheless pretty suddenly, as if they had come to the edge of a moonless and starless night. Bright greenish-blue waves bleached into pale and grey water, the colours of the sea late in the evening, and beyond that, utter blackness engulfed everything. It was disquieting.

They should have left, turned back to the sea and the sun behind them, rather than plunge on into the Darkness. Lucy had berated herself, afterwards, for not voicing her misgivings, for not insisting they avoid the dangerous place, for not opposing Reepicheep’s steadfast belief that ‘to turn back would be no little impeachment of all our honours’. She of all people should have been able to make the valiant Mouse face the difference between praiseworthy bravery and foolish rashness.

But back then, despite feeling that she would very much rather not, all Lucy had said out loud was, "I'm game."

And so they had rowed on, with a slow, steady rhythm, silent and ready for anything… or so they'd thought.

Nothing could prepare someone to face his or her own dreams after all – not the pleasant daydreams of wishful thinking, but the actual dreams that haunt sleep and hang about in one’s subconscious, preying on atavistic fears…

They had taken precautions: lanterns and torches had been lit, looking pale and feeble in the sunshine, and all the men had been fully armed and posted in their battle stations with swords drawn. Lucy had taken place with the archers on the fighting top, Susan proud and vigilant at her side, with her Gift – her wondrous bow, that so many times she had used unerringly – bent, arrows on the string, ready.

In the end, it had been in vain – how can you fight that which your own mind dreams up, that which is shapeless in the dark, unclear yet looming, that which paralyses you with frost-fingered fear?

She could not fathom how long their voyage into the darkness had lasted.

There had been nothing to see but the greasy reflection of the lanterns in the water and the small patches of deck the two torches made visible; nothing to feel except unnatural cold; nothing to hear but the creak of the row-locks and the splash of the oars.

Until the darkness had been shattered by a man’s howling cry…

Lucy had felt like weeping, overwhelmed by the sheer terror ringing in the poor voice. She never could have found the strength to address it like Reepicheep had, his shrill voice louder than usual in that silence, echoing inhumanly in the empty blackness: "Who calls?" it had piped and Lucy had felt an overwhelming urge to just silence him. "If you are a foe we do not fear you, and if you are a friend your enemies shall be taught the fear of us."

She’d had to bit down hard on her lip to stop from yelling out in desperation, in revulsion, not wanting any contact with whatever was out there; but then the voice had cried out for mercy, begged for relief, even if it was in death, even if the price was to fade away…“Only do not leave me in this abyss where I cannot find hope!” the lone man had cried: and her terror had left place to horror and pity, and compassion had moved her an instinctive step forward, reaching out her arms to the lonely voice in need.

She was sure that in that instant, all aboard had felt the same urge, the same need, to save the stranger, to rescue the man lost in the darkness, because he was like them, and the Darkness wasn’t, and there was a silent kind of recognition of 'us against it' that made every little bit of humanity all-important in that place where none was left, and no-one, no-one, could have ever abandoned someone else out there in the cold, in the dark.

It was just one of those moments, when you know beyond the grasp of reason that every man is a brother and no differences can truly matter in the face of something so overwhelmingly terrifying, because out there in the horror, humanity came first…

A dozen friendly hands had heaved the stranger on board, receiving with anxious relief the wild, white face, thin and drawn and staring haplessly, as if lost in an agony of pure fear, welcoming him as a long-lost brother; somewhere deep inside, Lucy had known that she would never truly regret venturing into the horror, not when they’d been the ones to rescue the poor man that now lay in a huddled heap on the deck.

Her hand had sought out Susan's unconsciously and the two limbs had bumped and met mid-way and clamped on each other with desperate strength, equally intent on holding someone living and real and close and never letting go.

"Fly! Fly! About with your ship and fly!” had been the stranger’s first wild, hoarse cry. “Row, row, row for your lives away from this accursed shore. This is the Island where Dreams come true – the dreams that haunt your nights, that make you afraid of going to sleep again…"

Never had a command been followed so promptly, so desperately. There are some things no man can face and all had realized it. Susan herself had been gasping sobs at the mere thought and it had been all Lucy could do not to grab her sister tighter still and hide in her shoulder like a scared child.

But she had had the horrible premonition that they weren’t out of danger yet.

She’d gripped the rail of the fighting top with her free hand and tried to steady herself against the wave of nausea rising in her. She'd kept murmuring reassuringly to herself that they were rowing back to the light as hard as they could: it would be all right in a few seconds, a few seconds now, it was all it would take...

Neither her fervent whispers nor the noise of the frantic rowing could chase away the total silence closing in on the ship however. She'd known it would be better not to listen, but like everybody else, she could not help straining her ears for any sound of horror hunting them.

And for all their efforts the ship hadn’t seemed to move at all… it was no use, and the pressing sounds of the nightmares were gaining on them… despair had seeped into their minds...

"We shall never get out, never get out," had moaned the rowers; "We're going round and round in circles,” had muttered the ship's officers fearfully; “We shall never escape," had sobbed Susan. And the stranger’s horrible screaming laugh had echoed them: "Never get out!"

And with the icy fear slithering among them, assailing their hearts, Lucy had known that only a power greater than any of them could save them.

She had leant her head on the edge of the fighting top and whispered, for she could not summon the strength to shout: "Aslan, Aslan, if ever you loved us at all, send us help now."

The darkness did not grow any less, but she began to feel a little - a very, very little - better. Enough that she could take a deep breath and force herself to look up, to scan the darkness, to have faith.

And there it was!

A tiny speck of light ahead!

“Look!” she’d cried, relief potent in her voice. “Look!”

And all had followed her raised gaze, compelled by the strength of her hope, and all had seen the beam of light that had fallen from the sky upon the ship, neither piercing nor altering the surrounding Darkness, but lighting up the whole ship, from the pinpoint of light that generated it to Lucy’s hand, outstretched to meet it.

The blessed light had highlighted her companions’ wild, fixed expressions and the sharply-edged shadows lying behind each of them, but Lucy had had eyes only for the shape she could glimpse in the beam: it looked like a cross, or maybe an aeroplane, or a kite… and at last with a whirring of wings it was right overhead and was an albatross.

It had circled three times round the mast and she suspected that no-one but her had heard it whisper "Courage, dear heart," in a voice, she felt sure, that was Aslan's, and that came with the impression of a delicious smell breathed in her face.

Then it had begun to fly slowly ahead, bearing a little to starboard.

“Be quick, be quick and follow!” she’d cried but all had been too dazed by the terrifying Darkness and the awing creature of light. She'd had to summon all her authority and the aura of regality and valiancy that always transformed her whenever Aslan breathed on her and shout out her orders again: “Turn to the starboard, my friends! Let us follow our good guide; for sure it will lead us out. Be quick!”

That at last had jolted everyone out of their stupor and they'd hurried to do as she was saying.

The glorious creature had sung a single pure note, as if in approval, as it flew on towards where the Darkness was melting into a greyness ahead, and then, almost before they’d dared to begin hoping, they had shot out into the sunlight and found themselves in the warm, blue world again.

They'd blinked their eyes, astonished by the brightness surrounding them, amazed at the white and the green and the gold ad the blue, unmarred by the tainting tentacles of the Darkness, and they'd quickly hugged each other, seeking reassurance that they were really there, really alright, really safe. Susan had clung to her with more strength than she had in years and Lucy had hugged her back just as fiercely.

And then first one, and then another, had started laughing, and laughing, and laughing, feeling almost weak with relief, even the poor, deranged stranger, who later turned out to be Lord Rhoop, and was too happy to speak, and could only gaze at the sea and the sun and feel the bulwarks and the ropes, as if to make sure he was really awake, while tears rolled down his cheeks and he kept laughing softly.

They’d sailed south-east with a fair wind in their sail and great joy in their heart, nobody noticing when the albatross had disappeared; but many had come to Lucy over the day, squeezing her hand or murmuring a thank you, and glancing meaningfully to the East.

That had been the moment when she'd proven, to herself and others, that she was indeed Queen Lucy the Valiant and even Susan, though still painfully distant, had been a little more like her old self afterwards; and so Lucy could not make up her mind on whether the ordeal had marked the best or the worst day of their voyage.

She made light of it in her recounting, though, and if it garnered her some sharp looks from those who had been there and knew how much she’d done, she felt it justified: there was no point dwelling on her own struggles, especially since she had overcome them.

This was the time for storytelling and their adventurous voyage had offered more than enough dangers and foes to make up the dark side of her narration. The inner foes – the darkest feelings – were better confronted in private.

So instead she went on quickly, diverting everyone’s attention with her tale of Eustace’s transformation into a big bad dragon and all that came of it.

She would seek out Peter later, out of sight of their friends and subjects, and curl up next to him like she’d always done, ever since she was a small child, before the war.

Back then, he was her wonderful big brother, who could make the thunder seem less scary, and the monsters in the shadows disappear. Later, in Narnia, it was no longer the storm that chased her to his room, but rather her own doubts and insecurities; still he was the one who could make everything alright, reduce any daunting fear to bearable or dispel it outright, because he was still her Peter, bold and steadfast and chivalrous and always willing to cuddle her when she needed a hug, still her big brother behind the grand figure of the High King, just like she was still impish Lucy under her stylish crown.

She would go to Edmund too, as she so often had, hunting him down like she’d done so many times over the years, padding softly into whatever hidden room or shadowed corner he’d chosen to retreat with his loneliness and pain, which she would never let him wallow in, to sit with him and wait expectantly for her brother to speak whatever was weighing on him, to listen and comfort and remind him that he was loved and had people to lean on whenever he needed to, or even just felt like it, to coax the lingering shadows out of his eyes, knowing that her own heart would be lighter afterwards. Though Ed didn’t seem to have as many burdens as he used to, all things considered: his son must have been good for him.

Yes, she would talk with her brothers later. She could share her own burdens with them then, knowing that they would not push her, but just be there for her when she needed them to. They, at least, did not appear to have changed like Susan had.

But she knew that, even in private, she wouldn’t tell of the saddening feeling that had grown in her with every gust of wind, with every mile eastbound… the dismaying realization that the last shore was not for her – that she would not travel to the very East on this voyage… the belief, stronger with every new dawn even as it warred with her utmost desire, that she would not be on the Dawn Treader ‘where sky and water meet, where the waves grow sweet’…

No, she would not say.

No matter how she felt, she trusted that if Aslan did not want her to reach His land yet, it was because He had better things in store for her.

And here she was, now, and what better reason than to see Peter and Edmund again?

It was heart wrenching to think she would not reach the end of dawn… but something told her she was not being denied, merely delayed.

“Not yet,” murmured the gentle waves to her, “not yet,” sang the playful sunbeams, “not yet!” reassured her the salty wind.

“But some day…?” would she ask in mid-voice, imploringly.

And His beloved voice replied in her heart: “One day, Dearest Child, one day!...”

And she believed.

So she laughed in sheer delight, and didn’t tell them, and instead narrated of rainbow coloured flying fish and strangely patterned ferns, of the days of shining sun and merry wind, out of sight of all lands, and of cheering at the sight of gulls that promised water and rest, and of the countless scary or funny, eager or silly speculations about what was awaiting them they had indulged in.

She spoke of the scare the great Sea Serpent gave them when it tried to crash their ship and of the mysterious Burnt Island where nothing but rabbits and a few goats and blackened ruins of stone huts remained, unexplained.

She told them of the terrible storm they’d braved, when it seemed to Lucy that great valleys in the sea had opened just before their bows, ready to engulf them, at the same time that great grey hills of water, far higher than the mast, had rushed to meet them, terrifying, making the ship spin round and round and drenching the sailors desperately trying to get control of the sail.

She recalled how some days, at sunset, the fiery beams would slip into the sea behind the Dawn Treader’s wake, slowly, almost gently, and they would light a thousand little sparks atop the waves, tingeing the horizon with gold, and how she would stand astern, trying to count the myriad of dancing little gleams.

And when she’d told it all, she sat back and grinned impishly: “Your turn now!”

And she was glad to see that her merry smile was so contagious.


	10. Susan

_ISA 43:18-19: “Remember not the former things,_   
_nor consider the things of old._   
_Behold, I am doing a new thing;_   
_now it springs forth,  
do you not perceive it?”_

 

 

Susan smiled gently, leaning on the balcony of her old private rooms in Cair Paravel.

It looked out on the Southern Gardens and from where she was she could see Peter and Edmund teaming up to grill her beloved, under pretence of a stroll among the marigolds.

She absently noted that Erice, the Royal Gardener, had kept the flowerbeds healthy and blooming just like when she was Queen here. It made her smile in remembered fondness. She’d always liked the quiet Hedgehog.

She shook her head in fond exasperation at how Peter was negligently decapitating the poor blooms as he passed. Her warrior brother had never learned to appreciate flowers.

She stifled a laugh as she watched the three men she loved the most in the world interact. By their body language, it was easy to guess Peter and Edmund were giving the ‘big brother speech’ to a rather intimidated-looking Drinian. Well, she supposed getting thoroughly threatened by the equivalent of King Arthur would be a rattling experience, even for a strong-hearted veteran like her beloved.

She wasn’t worried. Her husband had earned her esteem and admiration as well as her love and she was no fool, she’d met and evaluated her fair share of suitors and she wasn’t taken in by shallow attractions: she wouldn’t have conceded him her heart and her hand if he was unworthy. However prejudiced against him her silly, overprotective, wonderful brothers might be at first, they would find no true fault with him in the end.

He was a good man, and a good King.

She sighed in deep contentment, letting her gaze wander over the gardens, the orchard, the walls of the castle and further, sweeping the Southern lands that were dearer to her than she could express, as far as her eyes could see, basking in the warmth of the sun.

Before she realized it, her thoughts had wandered as well, thinking of the _other_ Narnia, the one she’d lived in these past few years, the one she’d come to love as much as the land she was looking at now. Her mind connected the landmarks she could barely make out in the distance with the events of the war rather than with her former rule: the South was were the whole of Caspian’s battle against his horrid uncle had taken place, after all.

She still shivered in remembrance of the terrible ordeal.

From the very start, her ‘solo adventure’ had been as awful as their early on war against the White Witch – though in the end, it had proved just as rewarding, too. At first, however…!

The surprise, the wonder, the _fear_ she’d felt when she’d found herself taken from that train station by magic… when she’d realized she was alone!

One moment she was bickering with Peter; the next the luggage, the seat, the platform and the station had completely vanished _and so had her family!_

She was all alone in an unrecognizable woody place, with branches sticking into her sides. Instinctively, remembering her Dryad friends’ lessons of old, she’d struggled out of the thicket so that she could have a clearer idea of the situation and have more room in case she needed to defend herself (or run).

She’d found herself looking down on a sandy beach, not a cloud in the blue, blue sky to soften the glaringly bright sunlight. A few yards away a very calm, dazzling sapphire sea was sending tiny ripples to brush lightly on the sand, hardly making any sound.

She’d stood almost sobbing in the idyllic landscape, a faint taste of salt sprinkling her lips, and felt fear and desperation threaten to overwhelm her.

She didn’t know where she was, she didn’t know how she’d been brought there, or by whom, and she was alone! Alone! She could do anything with her siblings at her side. She had - _they_ had done so much, been through so much - facing danger and horror as one. They were strong together. But alone…!

She’d closed her eyes tightly against the reality of her adventure, shutting out the glare of the midday sun on that empty beach, hugging herself, feeling small and lonely.

It had taken her a while to get over her fit of fear; but Narnia had always had a beneficial effect on her – like on everyone who loved the beautiful country.

And this _was_ Narnia. No doubt could dwell in her mind: there was just a peculiar feeling to the air here, the reverberations of the Deep Magic that permeated every fibre of Narnia’s beloved world, and Susan had long been particularly sensitive to its presence, ever since she’d witnessed its most wondrous effect.

Her thoughts had fluttered to that awful, blessed dawn when she and Lucy had mourned Aslan, and seen Him restored.

The memory of the Lion’s joy-filled roar had calmed her like nothing else could.

She could almost feel Him near.

She’d straightened, and waited, hoping for an instant to meet Him.

Alas, it was not to be! For all that she strained her eyes, He was nowhere to be seen. Only His warm, loving voice had reached her, and it was all around her, or maybe it was inside her, deep in her heart: “Once a King or Queen in Narnia, always a King or Queen!”

She’d taken a deep breath then, feeling stronger than ever.

No matter what, she was Queen Susan of Narnia – and as a Queen she would act. It would not do to behave like a scared child now that she was back. This was her country and for some reason, she was needed here. Whatever the problem was, she would face it with her head held high. She would look out for Narnia’s interests – alone, since it was necessary. She would not let her people down!

It was at that point that her logical brain had started working properly again and she’d faintly recalled the sound that had preceded her vanishing from the station. It had been such a familiar sound…

“Of course!” she’d exclaimed to herself in realization. “It was my Horn! I remember now. I took it with me the last day of all, the day we went hunting the White Stag. It must have got lost when we blundered back into the good Professor’s house. Someone must have found it!”

She’d shaken her head in dismay, thinking of the Gifts she and Peter and Lucy had been given long ago by Father Christmas, which they valued more than their whole kingdom. She’d felt sure of her deduction. It had been the Horn – her own Horn – that had dragged her off that platform. She could hardly believe it, yet it all fit: she remembered well what Father Christmas had told her when he’d handed it to her… “And when you put this horn to your lips; and blow it, then, wherever you are, I think help of some kind will come to you…"

Well, help had come to whoever had blown it: though she hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry at the situation. She knew lots of stories about magic forcing people out of one world into another, but it was rather disconcerting being on the genie’s side!

Still, if this was the will of Aslan… she would see it done.

She’d straightened her clothes, her movements smoothing out in renewed grace of old, and set her self-doubts to rest. Her people needed her, and with the help of Aslan, she would not let them down.

Nevertheless, it had been a shock to discover just _how much time_ had passed. Cair Paravel, her _home_ , in ruins; her sibling and herself nothing more than legends, whispers of a Golden Age long gone, pictures on the bas-reliefs of a refuge that didn’t even exist in her time; and her beloved country…

Her land was so different – hurt, scarred, altered beyond recognition.

Her heart constricted painfully when she heard nothing but silence from the trees, when no welcoming arms rose to her from the waters, when looking into the eyes of a huge Bear, she found nothing but feral mindlessness.

Oh, what had they done to her beautiful country?

She’d lost count of how many times she’d almost given up, almost broken down, the uncertainty and self-doubt and heartache almost getting to her. She’d lost count of how many occasions she’d faced when only the distrustful hope and weary yearning in the eyes of the New Narnians had kept her mask of strength and serenity in place, despite her inner turmoil.

But in the end, her choice, her determination, to be a rock they could hold onto had been the right one.

Slowly, she’d seen the battered, fearful creatures gather and rise, once again choosing fight over flight. Slowly, some light had started peeking through the clouds of fear and defeat, painting the situation in lighter colours.

It hadn’t been easy.

She’d missed Peter terribly: she was no war leader, she’d always been the one to stay home, never able to stomach battle or blood, least of all her siblings' blood, no matter how much heartache and worry being the one left behind caused. Now she could only smile faintly, shadows of old and remembered pain flickering in her eyes, and ruefully admit that, when it had come right down to it, when war had been unavoidable and her presence the only source of strength and courage for her people, she'd found she too could be a fighter, a leader.

She’d desperately wished that Lucy was there. Her simple radiance would have managed to restore hope and faith much quicker than her painstaking efforts had, her bravery would have inspired the Narnian resistance more easily than Susan’s insecurity-threatened actions. She’d never thought she could be like her valiant sister, who indomitably followed her brothers in their campaigns, always ready to support and encourage, to heal and sooth. Susan was a Queen of Peace, of feasts and dances, of careful negotiations hidden in pretty compliments and pleasant conversations. It had been hard to face a battlefield were everything was straightforward, and ugly, and gory.

She’d longed for Edmund’s steadiness and comforting calm, too, for the soothing confidence that he knew the right path and would steer them safely, like an experienced captain on a well-known route. She had been so full of doubts, of worries, of misgivings, behind her façade of graceful determination.

But there had been nothing to it. It was her duty to be what her people needed her to be – and any who dared threaten her beloved country would rue the day!

And the Narnians must have seen this, because they’d come to her, hope in their eyes, gathering around her with faith, trusting her to make things right.

It had been humbling to see their trust – and disheartening to realize that they all expected something different from her.

Her people had been divided, separated by conflicting opinions, Dwarves and Beasts at odds with each other almost ferociously. Dismayed, she’d watched them spit vicious words at one another, unable to band together even in the face of the crisis they were facing. How was she to reconcile these opposing factions?

There were those who’d kept the memory of the Golden Age clear in their hearts, who believed that the Narnian thrones should be occupied by Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve. “We remember,” they would say, “even if you forget, we’ll always remember, that Narnia was never right except when a Son of Adam was King."

Such claims were not taken well by those who were utterly convinced that all humans were foul, contemptible creatures and any attempt at alliance with them was hopelessly ill-fated. “Humans… The less they know about us the better!” would say the milder ones, but the majority had much stronger opinions: “I hate 'em. I hate 'em worse than renegades!... We can't let them live. They will betray us, enslave us… We ought to have killed them all at once…”

For all her love of solving problems through logic and rational debate; for all her pride in her ability to charm and win over her companions, no matter how prejudiced against her in the beginning; for all her experience of surviving the responsibilities of a ruler that had been placed on her young shoulders… the task of setting straight a legion of bewildered Narnians and make them into enough of a unit to have a hope to put the kingdom back to right was nothing short of unachievable.

Yet achieved it she had, slowly but surely.

Even then, picking a course of action had been easier said than done.

Glenstorm, who looked so much like Oreius she was often startled when his deeper and softer voice spoke, rather than her old General’s sharp tones, had told her everything he thought she needed to know: from how the Golden days of her and her siblings’ reign – and their descendants’, something that had startled her, for she could not imagine how it could be, when they hadn’t had any children that she knew of – had faded, to how the Dryads and Naiads had sunk into a deep sleep – a loss she’d felt keenly, like an actual ache – to how some Dwarf clans here and Beasts packs there had started forgetting Aslan, or treating Him as old wives' tales – which had Susan shake her head in saddened disbelief – and stopped thinking of themselves as cousins of all the other creatures in Narnia, weakening the land until it was ripe for the invasion and conquest that had wrecked it.

“The Telmarines have always been pirates, raiders, marauders. There are records of their attempts to conquer our country, and others too, all throughout history. It was only in my father’s time however, that Narnia became so weak and frail that it was no longer possible to keep them away,” had told her the brown skinned Centaur with the glossy chestnut flanks and the golden-red beard.

“Scoundrels, all of them!” had shouted Reepicheep, the valiant and chivalrous leader of the Talking Mice of Narnia, two feet and seven pounds of reckless, if gallant, bravery and one of the most loyal and trustworthy knights she had ever met.

“Not all of them,” Glenstorm had corrected quietly, but strongly. “Things would not have been so bad if Miraz’ brother had remained King… he was startled to find that we’re not demons like he’d been told all his life, but sentient people; but once he realized, he was willing to treat us rightly… we could have come to some form of co-existence, I believe.”

“Ridiculous…” had muttered Reepicheep, and the Centaur had sighed when many others had muttered agreements.

“Unfortunately, the old King Caspian was never interested in settling down and ruling a country… he had the blood of an adventurer, the sea called to him… it was far too easy for his loathsome brother Miraz to convince him to leave overseas… and to take the lords who were faithful to him along… and everything went downhill from there.”

“The kid, Prince Caspian, isn’t bad…” had been the calm comment of a sensible Badger. “We infiltrated some of us as his Nanny and Tutor so he would know the truth… he is on our side, and willing to fight against his uncle… He’ll be there at the How, my Queen, then you’ll see for yourself. I say great good will come of it. This is the true King of Narnia we're talking about here: a true King, coming back to true Narnia. You will see, my Lady…”

"You make me sick, Badger," had growled a disagreeable Dwarf. "The High King Peter and the rest may have been Men,” and he’d looked daggers at Susan, “but they were a different sort of Men. This is one of the cursed Telmarines. He has hunted Beasts for sport! You can’t tell me that’s the kind of King we should bow to!” he’d added rounding on her.

"You Dwarfs are as forgetful and changeable as the Humans themselves. I'm a Beast, I am, and a Badger what's more. We don't change. We hold on. And as long as Prince Caspian will be true to Narnia he shall be my King, whatever you say. Am I perchance wrong, your Majesty?" the Badger, too, had turned to her, as if she had all the answers.

"Narnia is not Men's country!”

“But it's a country for a man to be King of!”

That was when Susan had finally realized that they weren’t there to chase the invaders away, or not all of them at least: merely to make them understand, to make them accept.

And be accepted.

Perhaps an even more daunting task…

She had not let the wide-spread misgivings stop her. She had taken a deep breath and put purpose into her stride, leading her people not to the battle they’d expected, but to a meeting with the young Prince.

_Then_ there had been the battle – after she’d made sure Prince Caspian would acknowledge and be fair to all Narnians, after the trees and waters had been reawakened, after the Beasts and Dwarves and Dryads and Amadryads had been reunited into one people again and the Fallen ones who ad tried to raise their heads and bring the White Witch back had been neutralized, and all, Narnians and Telmarines – or at least, the few Telmarines who supported Prince Caspian – had remembered that Narnia was, first and last, the land of Aslan.

There had been the Battle… at Beruna, once again… ironic, she’d thought, and sad, and terrible. But she tried not to think too much of the blood and tears that had been shed.

She had been there, her quiver slung at her side and her bow twanging without pause, the chirruping sound lost in the nightmarish roar of battle but vibrating through her soul terribly.

She had not hesitated, she had not faltered, she had not wavered. She had been strong and implacable and relentless, as was expected of her, as was needed.

But she hadn’t liked it.

Still, the battle had been fought and won, Miraz killed, thankfully out of her sight, and the civil war subdued at last.

And Caspian had become King, crowned by Aslan on a glorious summer day. And he would be a good King; already was, actually.

It had, however, been an unsettling end to the years of hostility, both for her people and the remaining Telmarines. The atmosphere of tension and uncertainty had reminded her strongly, unpleasantly, of the times right after her own coronation, when the Witch’s clutch over the country hadn’t yet been completely shaken off. And she’d known, that it was up to her to reassure, to smooth things over, to show the way.

Narnians had to mix with Telmarines and become one people, stronger, united under one sky.

Perhaps because of what had always been her role, marriage came naturally to her as a solution…

She’d carefully sounded out opinions and found more or less what she expected. The ‘true’ Narnians, still rather downtrodden and distrustful towards the ‘invaders’, felt that marrying a Queen of Old would legitimate a King, even if he was a ‘foreigner’. The Telmarines had long been accustomed to brides bringing a dowry to their husband and were more accepting of the ‘oddities’ like Talking Beasts when they saw it all in the light of enrichments brought to their King through marriage.

Marry a Telmarine to solve most issues of integrations; marry a Telmarine to make her people – all her people, old and new – happy.

Strange how the idea didn’t bother her in the least.

Perhaps it was because she’d always thought she would marry away from Cair Paravel, marry ‘for Narnia’… for the political alliances and advantageous connexions her wedding could bring to her country… Even though no-one had ever pressured her in such a direction, she had always given it for granted: part of her ‘duty’, part of her role.

From this point of view, meeting Drinian had been a sweeter luck than she could put into words: for she was married indeed, married for her country, yet she was still Queen in Narnia!

She knew that many had expected – or at least wished – her union with Caspian. It had, after all, looked like the most logical and sensible solution.

She still could only sigh at the thought. He was a dear boy, one she would gladly call brother, and proudly support as King, but he was not suited to her. His crush on her was endearing, but…

No. Just no.

He was too young, too naïve, too awkward still… he was sweet, loyal and bright, with a curiosity and thirst for discovery to rival Lucy’s and as time went by, he was growing stronger and firmer, his confidence making him steady without spilling into arrogance: more and more, she was coming to believe he was worthy of sitting on her brother’s throne.

Yet, none of these qualities were enough to make her regret turning him down.

She knew herself too well: she knew that she would be neither happy nor at ease with herself, unless she could truly esteem her husband, know that he was her equal, and worthy of her respect. Caspian was a great King, but, for goodness’ sake, he was still intimidated by her, and it had been years since they’d met!

No, it was another who had won her over in the end, one that perhaps should never even have caught her eye. And yet…

She’d had many suitors in her life, and some were more handsome, more witty, of more noble birth, of more engaging manners, even more charming; yet in the end, Lord Drinian alone had touched something deep inside her, close enough to where she held her siblings for her to understand that her choice was made. She guessed that this tall man, both stern and gentle, both passionate and prudent, was just what she had unconsciously looked for in her various courtiers and never found before.

Still, he had not pursued her, likely believing her rank too above his own. Long she had suspected his regard for her, yet nothing in his manner of address or behaviour could give her chance to believe he asked for more. And as her understanding of her own esteem, admiration… _love_ , grew, she wondered if she should be the one to speak after all.

At last, in the flaming light of a stormy sunset, on the gentle slope by the Great River, she had bid him to talk.

His burning eyes had sought her serious gaze and held it. “I daren’t, Lady.”

“And if I was not your Queen?”

And his silence had broken at last, like a dam, and the words that had burst forth had swept her away in a whirlwind of emotions more dangerous than the tempestuous wind swirling around them.

She had felt then as if something deep inside her had softened, the way bitter frost yields at the first faint presage of spring. He had called her beautiful, and many others had before, but coming from him, it meant more; he had called her strong, too, and under his burning, tender gaze, she had felt so.

He had spoken his promise with quiet strength: "I shall always revere you... you who are as strong and stern as steel, yet frail and fair as the snowdrops that dot late winter’s fields… for you are a lady of grace and valour and have won yourself renown that shall never be forgotten, and my admiration for you knows no bounds… It is you whom I care for the most in this world, My Queen, nor that will ever change…”

A tear had sprung in her eye and fallen down her cheek, like a glistening rain-drop, as she had stood just gazing at him through tears of happiness, straight and queenly and so blissful that she almost feared her heart would burst.

And when she’d said her ‘yes’, he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her under the blazing sky, and neither had cared that many could see them; and when they'd walked back hand in hand, crowned by the reddish gold of dusk, knowing smiles and quiet cheers had greeted them.

She had not been disappointed in her choice. The more the time passed and the more Drinian truly stepped up to his true role, supporting Caspian in the daunting task of leading all of Narnia much in the same way Edmund used to support Peter, steadying the young King and strengthening his confidence as well as tempering his rashness; while to her, he was a constant source of comfort and happiness, of pride and reassurance, of strength and joy.

And to those among their people – Old Narnians and Telmarines alike, for there were less and less distinctions – who were perplexed or even disappointed, she had gently reminded: “Are there not _four thrones_ in Narnia?”

For the kingdom to be at its best, all four had to be occupied, this she firmly believed.

Caspian would find someone who was perfect for him sooner or later, someone who would seat on Lucy’s throne and make him happy: she was certain of it, and something told her that his Queen would be… _radiant_.

As for her, she couldn’t be prouder, or happier, at how her home was faring…

Weird how that other Narnia had become Home so naturally in her soul.

For so long she’d thought of Cair Paravel during the Golden Age as her home; certainly for much longer than she’d even known Drinian and Caspian and all the others. Yet now ‘home’ was so far away – in time, though not in miles.

She knew Lucy planned to stay here, or rather, _now_ , that they all wanted the Gentle Queen back, her siblings and her friends, that they expected her to step back into her place of beloved sister, revered Queen, as if nothing had changed, but she wasn’t staying. She couldn't; nor did she wish to, not anymore.

The war had hardened her; not having three others to take on the hardships had strengthened her; she didn’t want to go back to a role she no longer felt was hers. She was equal to King Caspian and taking a much more active role in defending her people now… and besides, Drinian was her home now.

Not to mention…

Her hands strayed to her womb of their own volition, cradling it gently. She had an indisputable reason to go back with her husband now, one that her siblings would not object to once she revealed it. Edmund at least should understand deeply. She shook her head in wonder, still unable to believe her baby brother had a child.

She had not told her beloved that he was going to be a father yet. He might well get some ludicrous notion in his head, of sending her home or something, for her own good. She shook her head with a faint smile. She’d been there when Caspian had made his vow, binding all the Monarchs of Narnia to the search of his lost father: she wasn’t going to be left behind.

She planned on telling Lucy though, and her brothers, before she left: they deserved that much.

She wondered if her child would be a boy or a girl. She wondered if it would take after her and her siblings or after its father instead. She wondered if they would be as good a King or Queen as their relatives were. She wondered if her brothers and sister would ever meet them.

She prayed that they would; but no matter what, she was leaving with her Drinian.

She caught sight of the green-eyed Prince Leo as she walked back to the others. It was a horrible thing to say, to be sure, but she wasn’t particularly fond of her nephew.

This was no longer her world, this was no longer her life. To try and rekindle flames snuffed out long before was foolish. She’d always been practical: had she been confined to England, she would have done her best to fit into that world and forget this one. She was beyond grateful that she’d been granted a life with a man she loved and people she could love too, but this castle she was walking the halls of was no longer part of her life, nor of her affections. And something told her Edmund’s son would not cross her path again.

Still, she was leaving soon, she was sure: she could be the gracious and gentle Queen her good manners required her to be at all times for the short span of time they were together. Even if there was something… odd… and a little frightening about the child.

She gave him a beautiful smile, sweet and empty, as she passed; and went to look for her husband.


	11. Coriakin

_Psalm 73:24 You guide me with your counsel,  
and afterwards you will take me into glory. _

 

 

When you were a retired Star, there was very little that could surprise you.

Coriakin had been expecting the little, radiant Queen who came by to lift the spell ever since he'd let the Duffers make themselves and him invisible. Maybe he hadn't been especially on the watch that particular day, being unseeable always made him so sleepy, but still, it was bound to happen sooner or later, so he hadn't been surprised.

The portal between his time and library and a Royal Court in a past that by human standards was definitely distant was a little less foreseeable, but still not altogether surprising. It had happened before after all and Coriakin had to smile at recalling one particularly memorable such episode, that had been on his mind a lot as of late. There were more doors in his mansion than even he knew.

He could never have imagined, however, the shock Queen Lucy's family ended up giving him. Or rather, the youngest member of her family.

The Queens' and Kings' tales told and marvelled over, everybody was relaxing a moment, letting their minds digest what they'd learned and their hearts rejoice in the meeting of friends thought lost.

Coriakin stayed carefully on the sidelines, not wanting to intrude.

He distracted himself listening to the young Prince's lively commentary of his aunts' adventures, his friends and the grumpy boy from the Dawn Treader – Eustace? – clustered around him to rehash the most thrilling parts. Coriakin was not at all surprised to find what it was that had caught the youngling's fancy the most.

“Imagine if I was a dragon!” sighed Prince Leo wistfully.

“You _want_ to be a dragon?” exclaimed his red-haired friend - Jill, if Coriakin was not mistaken - incredulously.

“Well, not really,” admitted the boy. “I mean, I wouldn't want to be stuck like that and have to eat carcasses and carrions and not be able to talk at all.”

“Yeah, it's not fun, I can tell you,” grumbled Eustace moodily.

“But imagine if I could turn into a dragon _at will!”_ blurted out Prince Leo with renewed enthusiasm. “Imagine if I could be a dragon whenever I wanted!...”

He stared dreamily into nothing, lost into his fantasy.

“Why would you want to?” asked the little Mole Coriakin hadn't heard the name of yet, cowering a little. “Dragons are big and mean and scary. I wouldn't want to be one!”

“But, they can _fly!”_ shouted the Prince with rapturous enthusiasm, as though nobody in their wildest dreams could hope for more than that. “If I was a dragon, I'd have _wings_ and I would be able to _fly!”_

He jumped up and thrust his arms to the sides, imitating a dragon gliding around the room and drawing quite a number of fondly amused looks.

“But every bird has wings,” pointed out Jill very sensibly. “It wouldn't have to be a dragon. You could be a... a robin, for instance... and you'd still be able to fly!”

Prince Leo stopped abruptly and twirled to face her: “Well, yeah,” he admitted, just a little surly. “Any bird would be cool, really. Only, dragons are cooler! 'Cause they can spit fire too! Can't they?” he turned eagerly to Eustace, who had evidently been promoted to Ultimate Authority over Everything Dragonesque in the green-eyed boy's mind.

“Yes, in fact, one puff of breath is enough to light the most obstinate fire. And it's almost hard to _not_ spit at least smoke, because the body of a dragon is always hot and ready to produce fire. People were forever wanting to cuddle up to my sides in the evening if it turned chilly, as it sometimes did after the heavy rains, to get well warmed and dried,” was the answer.

Coriakin chuckled silently within himself. By the tone of the child, you wouldn't have been able to tell if he was delighted or annoyed!

“That's brilliant,” sighed the kids in awe.

“Ehi!” exclaimed Prince Leo excitedly. “Do you think I could try and use my powers for that?”

Coriakin blinked, confused. Powers?

“ _Absolutely not!”_ interjected King Edmund scowling. Apparently the magician wasn't the only one keeping an ear on the kids' conversation.

The Prince turned sharply to his father: “But, Dad!...”

“ _No_ , Leo!” said the King firmly.

“Aww...”

“It's too dangerous, silly. What if you get stuck like that?” berated him the Bear cub, whom Coriakin was reasonably sure was called Beba, or perhaps Bibi, poking a paw in his side.

The Prince looked a little sheepish, but also still a lot mulish.

“Leo,” said King Edmund with a worried frown, “what did I tell you about experimenting?”

“Not to do it without proper supervision!” came a chorus from all four kids.

“Oh, but Dad!” burst out the Prince, unabashed. “It would be so _cool_ to fly! Imagine what fun it'd be to be up in the sky...”

He thrust his arms around his father's neck, and King Edmund hugged him back. “I think there's plenty of fun to be had on the ground!” he muttered, but he was smiling.

“Mayhap I should ask one of the Gryphons to escort you on a brief ride,” suggested the High King kindly.

“Peter! I'll thank thee not to encourage his rashness!” cried King Edmund, fondly exasperated.

But Prince Leo was already bouncing around the room in excitement. “Really? Really? Oh, please! Please! Please!”

“It was fun, but rather scary, when I was on Fierceback...” commented Jill softly.

The Prince let go of his uncle and pounced on her: “That's right! You've flown! What was it like?” his eyes were gleaming. “Tell us!” and soon the kids were confabulating away again.

Coriakin, judging this was a good time to interrupt, cleared his throat cautiously: “Excuse me, Your Majesties... _what powers?”_

The two Kings shared a sheepish glance. “Yes, Ed,” frowned Queen Lucy, reproachful and amused all at once. “I don't recall you mentioning any _power_ in your recounting.”

“Slipped your mind, perhaps, dearest brother?” asked Queen Susan with a rather piercing gaze.

Coriakin would have chuckled at the raised eyebrows and sheepish countenance of those who weren't and were in the know respectively, but he was too busy puzzling over the implications of what the Prince had let slip.

“Well,” admitted the Just King, “I suppose I should explain, at that.”

Except that his account didn't explain much of anything. Blasting thugs into a wall? Setting curtains on fire by accident? Weaving emotion magic through music like a Faun?

“Were there no instances before the High King's arrival?” Coriakin asked frowning. He supposed the idea of a born magician wasn't so far-fetched – although a foreign concept to this world, other places had given birth to such magic users: the young visitors his mind kept going back to were proof of this, as was the Witch who'd been brought here from the ruined world of Charn – but it didn't make sense that there had been no trace of the ability beforehand.

Everybody turned to look at him and he suggested: “Perhaps something less conspicuous? Levitating a toy, maybe, or changing the colour of something to a better liked one?”

“What do you mean?” asked Queen Lucy curiously.

“Well, now that you mention it...” murmured the Faun with glossy black legs and a short pointed beard who sat very close to the golden-haired girl. “Would being found atop perches he couldn't possible have climbed be an example of what you're seeking?”

But King Edmund didn't give the magician the time to answer: “Before we go on in this delicate topic, kind sir, of your courtesy explain to us, what your interest is in my son, if you may, and what reasons prompt your odd questions.”

There was nothing but formal courtesy, in every word he spoke, but all the same the veiled threat was clear, should the stranger reveal himself to be a danger to his child, and Coriakin, well understanding the King's misgivings, gave a small, kind smile to the concerned father: “I am a wizard, Your Majesty. And I have a strong suspicion that His Highness is as well.”

Suddenly he had both of the Kings' utmost attention. It would almost have been unnerving, if they hadn't looked so young in his eyes; they were certainly powerful, and not just because of the crowns on their heads.

“Really?” piped Prince Leo, perking up at the announcement.

“Well, now,” King Edmund said, troubled but smiling. “That’s what I call a fortunate coincidence!”

Coincidence...

Well, if one wanted to think it that. But Coriakin had seen too much in his long, long years to believe that anything ever happened without a reason. When you were a retired Star, you knew better than most that there is no coincidence in the world, there is only inevitability.

No, he was quite sure that the unexpected opening of a passage through time in his library was anything _but_ coincidental.

If Prince Leo was indeed a magician – or rather, a potential one, for you needed knowledge after all, to wield you power – as seemed very likely, then Coriakin could see clearly why he'd been called here – or rather, now.

Untrained magical potential was a dangerous thing – and he had always found teaching a rewarding task.

The magician smiled widely when the Just King invited him to become the Prince's tutor. In less than no time, everything was settled: he would be training His Highness in the ways of wizardry.

Coriakin would be lying if he said he wasn't excited at the prospect of teaching the young Prince... it was a gift from Aslan, this opportunity; one that he probably didn't deserve, but was going to enjoy thoroughly nonetheless.

However, it still didn't explain the book.

A few hours later, the magician was settled in a comfortable armchair in the elegant quarters King Edmund had had prepared for him, and contemplated the mysterious volume in his hands once more, turning it over and over in a way that had become habit.

It was a beautiful tome. Bound in soft, light-coloured leather, with a winding stylized vine climbing its spine. And it had appeared out of nowhere on his workdesk some time earlier.

He knew his library too well to mistake it for one of his own. No, this particular book came from... somewhere else. He rolled his eyes. The Great Lion sometimes had interesting ways of making suggestions!

Too bad one couldn't just ask what, exactly, He meant for them to do. Mostly because He was very seldom around when you wished. Quite the contrary, He would most often be there a moment and gone the next, and His poor servants would be left quite crestfallen. It was always like that: you couldn't keep Him. After all, it was not as if He were a tame lion!

Coriakin stroked gently the soft, cool cover, letting the by now familiar sensation of faint excitement and curiosity fill him. He traced the odd title lightly.

_Hogwarts. A history._

He chuckled slightly. The title by itself did not mean much, and was in fact quite off-putting until you figured out that it meant a place. It was something in the preface however that made him stare and laugh the first time he read it through.

_Under the guidance of current Headmaster Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Hogwarts has maintained its reputation as the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world..._

That was the paragraph that invariably sent him back in memory to the very unexpected visit of two most unusual young men he'd received... oh, merely a handful of moments earlier, to his perspective, though he supposed to a human mind it would seem a long life back...

Albus and Gellert!... What a pair! Both extraordinarily brilliant – scarily so, in fact – but reckless, so reckless. Playing with interdimensional Rituals – and at such a young age, too. Quite the dangerous business!

How could he berate them, though, when he himself had always been prone to the same sin of arrogance? Of blind trust in his own cleverness and brilliancy? Of foolhardy belief that any means was justified by the goal of learning?

Hubris... the sin most common under every sun.

Coriakin had learned his lesson, eventually. Years among the foolish subjects the Great Lion had given him when he'd lost the right and privilege to shine in the southern winter sky had taught him quite a lot about cleverness and stupidity, and the place of both; although he admitted the silly creatures had grown on him somewhat. His punishment was not ultimately too burdensome.

He was no longer prideful nor resentful, yet he had not lost the awareness of his self and of his great skills. He supposed one might say he'd learned wisdom. Truthfully, he felt he was still learning forbearance, kindness and humility – what he had lacked once, what his merciful punishment was giving him a chance to gain.

He could only hope that the two young wizards had, too, learned that all-important lesson and that it had not come at too high a price.

But that was sadly unlikely.

When they'd stumbled, quite accidentally, in his private pantry, they'd been seventeen, high-strung and immature. So full of themselves, of their grand theories, so utterly convinced that they – and only they – knew best.

'For the greater good', indeed.

Coriakin could only shake his head. The only Good was what came from the Great Lion, and through Him, from the Emperor Beyond the Sea, and that Good had no shades of lesser or greater.

Albus had been quite tall, with long, sweeping auburn hair and piercing light blue eyes. The young man had shown to have a sharp and learned mind; he had been fascinated by the number of curious, polished instruments that Coriakin kept in his private study and had pelted the Star with questions about the various Astrolabes, Chronoscopes, Poesimeters and Theodolinds the old magician delighted himself with. He had a good scientific mind, Albus had, and an open mindset towards understanding the unexplainable.

Gellert, golden blond and merrily wild, with a charismatic air of triumphant trickery about him, had been less scholarly inclined. Despite observing Coriakin's trinkets, and even more, his books, with covetous eyes, he had been markedly more interested in the humanistic side of magic – politics, history, the debate on justice and government and the regulation of society. And power, always at the centre of his reasoning there had been power.

The two youngsters had remained his guests for no more than three days, but it had been enough to touch on a number of topics.

Coriakin had quickly realized that Gellert had a lot going in his favour. Handsome, charming and brilliant – it was no wonder that he had such a high opinion of himself. He was, in everything, openly defiant and even mocking, goading his interlocutors with his every word, yet somehow, he came across as admirable rather than wretched.

Coriakin wondered if he'd learned fear, in the years since then, or if he'd remained as wildly defiant in the face of the universe.

He had been highly intelligent and magically talented, but ruthless, with a vicious temper and dangerously powerful ambition. But, the magician reflected, the darkest side of his personality had been, perhaps, his narcissism. With how very self-absorbed he had been, openly thinking almost no one was his equal, it was almost surprising that he'd gifted his friendship to young Albus.

Yet he had seemed to genuinely care about his auburn-haired friend: he appreciated their friendship and respected his abilities, almost as much as Albus valued and admired him.

Yes, they had been a most interesting pair. Quite likely the most powerful wizards of their generation, if not their time, and no doubt destined to be greatly admired and greatly feared by many, even others of outstanding magical talent.

It was just sad that Albus so clearly had romantic feelings towards Gellert, and that just as clearly, Gellert did not share this affection: no good would come of that...

But truly, the blond Gellert had been an unpleasant brat, despite his driving charisma. Conceited, too. Coriakin had wanted to laugh when he'd criticized him for walking barefoot. 'Wizards need to be dignified'! What nonsense.

His grandiose ideas were despairingly laughable in the eyes of the wise fallen Star.

Non-magicals forced into subservience. Magicians triumphantly ruling. And naturally, him and Albus above all others, glorious young leaders of the revolution he was daydreaming of.

None of that was even remotely sensible – and of course, the egotistic young wizard had dismissed every possibility of not being right on all counts with scathing anger.

Coriakin had felt more of a connection with young Albus. The boy, barely an adult even by his people's standards, was grieving and suffering under the constriction of responsibilities he had not wanted but had been forcefully thrust upon him regardless.

The fallen Star could read it all in his eyes, the confusion and struggle their piercing blue couldn't hide. He was gifted, he was brilliant: he didn't want to be trapped, wasted, buried under the weight of those who depended on him. He wanted to shine, to bask in the glory of others' admiration. Anger and bitterness lurked in him, topped by an overwhelming yet deliberately ignored guilt. He loved his family, that much was clear, and he knew it was selfishness who drove him apart from them, but despite realizing he was in the wrong, he was too caught up in his own ambitions to admit it even to himself.

And naturally, Gellert didn't help – manipulating his friend's attraction, guilt and pride with sophisticate skill to further his own agenda.

Coriakin had struggled to make them understand, before it was too late. He had tried his best to explain that while he was forced to use magic to govern the Duffers, _for the time being_ , the aim was that they be ruled by wisdom in the distant future, instead.

Definitely not the other way round!

That magic should rule all... no, that wasn't an idea Coriakin could, in good conscience, condone. Magic shouldn't rule anyone at all.

He had felt it was his duty to at least attempt to make them see this truth, before they got too lost in their false dreams. Inevitably, reality would return and it would not be in a pretty form.

However, they did not want to hear. Unsurprisingly... The very young do not often do as they're told. Coriakin might have become impatient, but waiting for the day when the Duffers entrusted to him could be governed by wisdom instead of rough magic had trained his patience in abundance.

As the Great Lion would say, 'All in good time'.

Gellert's, Coriakin very much feared, was the kind of mindset that couldn't be helped even by greater powers than a humble fallen Star. He _would_ not be helped: he had chosen cunning instead of belief, and thus, his own mind, brilliant in the same way that a diamond is brilliant, all edges and chilliness, was in effect a steel trap imprisoning him.

It didn't make his ideas any less catching, any less inflaming.

Albus had had a few scruples, Coriakin could see, but he had been quite apt at assuaging his conscience with empty words about how any harm done would be repaid a hundredfold in benefits. He wilfully closed his eyes, and it was not hard for the old Star to see why.

Ah, young love... Coriakin couldn't wait to feel it once more!...

Yes, poor Albus was a rather confused young man. How could he say, in the same breath, that power gave wizards the right to rule and that the foundation stone of every ruling was the responsibility towards the ruled; that non-magicals should be guided like sheep for their own good and that serving and benefiting them was to be the highest goal of every ruler; that their plans for domination were righteous and regrettable at the same time; was rather beyond the old magician.

Coriakin had thought he could hear contrasting influences in that – a lot of his words had actually been Gellert's, though he himself probably didn't realize it.

But he would learn... he would grow, and live, and learn, as humans are wont to do.

And actually it seemed he had, if the mysterious book was to be believed, though Coriakin had a hard time believing the time had passed so quickly. Headmaster of a prestigious school, revered leader and source of guidance. He had most definitely grown.

It also seemed, again according to the book, that he had taken to heart some of Coriakin's own teachings. That quote about music being a magic far beyond all he could do was his, the magician was sure.

He chuckled ruefully to himself, remembering. He had delighted in offering his two guests true advice, yet cloaked in an aura of mysterious wisdom. Well, he was entitled to his quirks, was he not?

"Humans have a knack for choosing precisely the things that are worst for them," he had told Gellert. “Does that mean they should be given what they ask for?”

"Happiness can be found, Albus, even in the darkest of times,” he'd offered on another occasion, “but only when one remembers... to turn on the light," he'd winked.

And again: “Everything happens but once, yet once it has to happen.”

They had looked daggers at him, but his only reaction to their sour muttering had been a slight innocent glamour charm that made his eyes sparkle merrily. It had irritated them to no end.

The last piece of advice he'd offered them, before sending them back to their own world, had been the most important one and, he feared, the one that would be the least headed.

“You can’t make things right by magic. You can only stop making them wrong.”

Something that no magician was ever willing to acknowledge at first... something that every magician was forced to admit, sooner or later.

Coriakin read as carefully as he could between the lines of the mysterious book that had brought the two dimension travellers back to his mind.

He wished to find out what, exactly, young Albus had done with his life – beyond becoming Headmaster of a reputable institute of learning, as was stated.

Well, no matter. If Hogwarts was considered one of the finest magical institutions in their world, then for sure it was the best place for the young Prince to attend, given the rather explicit hint the Great Lion had left to Coriakin.

Now only two things were left for him to wonder: how to convince the King to send his son to school... and what young Albus would think of it all.

However, as the book confirmed, admittance age to young Albus' school was eleven. Were was that passage... _Children with magical abilities may be enrolled at birth and acceptance is confirmed by_ _Owl post_ _at age eleven._ They'll have to work around the enrolment issue, not to mention the owl post problem, but it was doable.

Age eleven... That gave Coriakin two and a half years to work with the young Prince.

“Who will look after the Dufflepuds while I'm here?” he asked, apparently to thin air. They might have been a punishment, but he wasn't about to skirt his responsibility to them, and not only out of duty.

It was the beautifully carved Lion Head over his mantlepiece who answered: “I dare say Lord Rhoop will benefit from a respite from his adventures.”

Coriakin relaxed. Oh, yes, this was perfect... he had noticed the harried, troubled man, continuously glancing to the corners in overwhelming terror. He could only shake his head sadly at the horror of his story. The Darkness... nobody deserved that, not ever. Yes, the poor man would greatly benefit from an extended vacation on his quiet reposeful island, he would appreciate the serene and relaxing – alright, the _boring_ – task after the nightmarish experience he'd endured.

A couple years... and then Coriakin could go back to his efforts at enlightening the Dufflepuds and hopefully, the man would be amenable to stay around. The magician would definitely not mind some company.

Yes, this was perfect.

“Thank you, Sir,” he said sincerely.

There was no answer, and the image didn't stir. But when you were a retired Star, you were wise enough to know that He hears genuine thanks from anywhere.

Contentedly, Coriakin started to plot what he would teach His Highness first, and when, and how.

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	12. Leo

_PRO 22:6 Train a child in the way he should go,  
and when he is old he will not turn from it._

 

 

A wandering tune drifted from an almost empty compartment on the Hogwarts Express, the pure notes of a flute cascading merrily like clear waters down a rocky stream, then chasing each other like kittens playing with colourful strings.

The melody was never rushed or forced: it was lively and playful, with an undercurrent of excitement and expectations and just a hint of nervousness, but mostly full of lighthearted joy and the serene confidence of someone who is simply happy.

Prince Leo of Narnia was going to Hogwarts.

And he felt like he was, all things considered, the luckiest boy in any world: a belief that trickled in every note his nimble fingers coaxed from the wooden pipe.

It was not music common humans would be likely to hear often: the instrument was made by the fauns and the young player's skill and innate power were such that not only was he creating exquisite sounds, but also evoking colours, shapes and emotions in his listeners' minds.

It was compelling.

So much so that a heterogeneous group of teenagers was gathered outside the compartment door, enraptured, and be it the magic of the music or whatnot, people who would normally never stand the sight of each other and could not be in the same room without vicious fights, verbal or worse, were now standing side by side contentedly, peacefully listening, united in the silence the moving tune was sculpting into wondrous fantasies.

The wandering tune wound to a close, flickering a last ornamentation at the close, a twining of notes that was almost the laugh after a good joke and moved everybody's lips in an involuntary curl upwards.

Then, there was silence, suddenly and annoyingly invaded by all the little common noises – the roar of the air rushing past the train window, the squeal of the wheels on the rails, the indistinct chatting from compartments further away.

Leo blinked in surprise when, after a moment's hesitation, there was a knock on the glass door of his compartment.

“Come on in!” he exclaimed graciously, waving welcomingly to the teens hovering just outside.

A few excused themselves hurriedly and went off, looking almost embarrassed, but the others entered, with small bashful smiles and bright, if hesitant, eyes. A tall, black boy looking about fifteen in jeans and a West Ham t-shirt, a bushy haired girl Leo's age, a couple of older girls already in uniform, wearing blue and bronze colours, two boys in black robes who looked like they were brothers.

“That was beautiful!” one of the older girls sighed eventually, breaking the silence. Her raven-black curls were tied up in a haphazard low bun and she was holding some books loosely in her crossed arms.

Other, eager voices quickly echoed her, variations on the same comment - “It was fabulous!” - “Lovely!” - “Never heard anything like that, I swear.” - “You are so good, it was like you were playing emotions instead of music...” - “It was like magic!”

Leo laughed lightly at the last one: “It _is_ magic!” he admitted easily. “Fauns use their music to all sorts of ends.”

“Are you trying to make a joke?” asked the youngest of the two blond-haired brothers coolly, slipping in the seat in front of Leo. He was quickly joined by his brother and both looked at the young prince intently with identical light blue eyes.

“Wait, wait!” exclaimed the bushy haired girl excitedly, sitting down beside Leo. “So fauns are real? Like, actual creatures with the upper body of a human and the lower body of a goat and they _exist_? That's amazing! But then everything is, starting with the idea that magic is real, don't you think so? Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard — I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough — I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?”

Leo looked at her amused, her excitement was contagious.

The eldest blond didn't seem impressed, however. “Muggleborn, I should have known,” he sniffed disparagingly. “No manners at all.”

“Hey!” exclaimed the tall black boy indignantly. “There's no need for any of that pureblood crap, kid!”

And just like that, there were two fronts: the compartment was cut through by an invisible, very real line – us _here_ , you _there_. Anyone who'd grown up dealing with politics every other day like Leo had could feel the two sides taking shape and squaring off against each other – in the straightening of shoulders, the firming of lips, the slight, almost unnoticeable shifting towards or away from the others – even if at a surface glance it would be missed.

The blond shot his opponent a disgusted look: “First of all, I'm only a year behind you, you idiotic Hufflepuff, so I'm no kid...”

“Watch what you say about my House, you slimy snake!” came the indignant grumble.

Leo frowned, uneasy, wondering if they would demand he take sides and how to avoid it.

The blond boy, however, went on haughtily ignoring the other: “...and secondly, it's not nonsense. You Muggleborns are simply not suited to attending Hogwarts, you've never been brought up to know our ways. Morgana's pets, most of you have never even heard of the school until you get the letter! It's obvious they should keep it in the old wizarding families and...”

The chatty girl - Hermione – frowned as well, displeased, but didn't dare say anything, clearly uncertain; one of the girls in blue and bronze however had no qualms cutting the blond's speech off: “Yes, yes, Arthur, we've heard it all before,” she said, tossing her shoulder-length chestnut braid impatiently. “Please spare us. It's not like it isn't a load of bullshit,” she told him bluntly.

Then she turned to Hermione Granger and Leo: “I'm Alina Cornfoot, by the way, of Ravenclaw House: pleasure to meet you all. You're first years, right? My brother Stephen is starting this year too, I hope he'll be a Raven as well...” she took a seat next to the younger girl and dragged her black-haired friend down with her. “I'm in the same year as Mark Johnson, there, though he's in Hufflepuff. And this is my best friend, Seanate Levine, Ravenclaw like me, and Muggleborn,” she concluded, gesturing to the other girl but with a pointed glare at the blond across her.

Leo sighed as the girl's words, though more friendly than Arthur's, did nothing to dissipate the separation that had materialized among them and, instead, created yet more dividing lines – Ravenclaws _here_ , Hufflepuffs _there_ , the somewhat dismissing tone of her voice making it clear that _Ravenclaw was better_...

Arthur and his brother snorted in unison: “Best friend! That's rich. You really should know better, Cornfoot. A family as old as yours shouldn't associate with the lesser...”

“Oh, stuff a sock in it, Blishwick,” she retorted, annoyed.

Leo grimaced. He'd been warned of the possibility of prejudice, but he hadn't expected it to be so blatant.

He opened his mouth to intervene and hesitated, suddenly realizing that the questions forming in his brain were jumping right into court speech, which wouldn't do at all in his current company. He'd clearly spent too much time with Lord Chamberlain Giles as of late: no matter what his father said ( _“It is part of your duty to Our country to learn good form, etiquette and protocol! The Royal Household is what sets the standard in matters of courtesy and decorum and you, my son, are a part of it!”_ ), he knew it was bad for his health.

Dismissing the irreverent thought, he hastily translated what he wanted to say to common everyday English: “Does it really matter?” he asked a bit hesitantly. He wasn't sure that he truly wanted the answer, but it was best to know the full extent of what he was facing. Especially if he wanted to try and reduce the divisions somewhat. Supposing he could. “Is it really so important whether you've grown up in this world or not?”

“No!” came a chorus from the three eldest students, barely overpowering the shouted “Yes!” from the two blonds.

Leo sighed, feeling the impalpable dividing line thicken into almost a wall. His good mood was rapidly evaporating.

The younger brother snapped: “It matters because if you're Muggleborn you know next to nothing about how our world works! For example, if she weren't Muggleborn she wouldn't have believed your stupid joke about fauns!”

“Leave, Claudius, it's useless,” muttered his brother.

“What joke?” asked Leo, confused.

“But Artie!” protested Claudius, frowning at his brother.

“Oh, so fauns don't exist after all?” interjected Hermione disappointed.

“Sure they do!” replied Leo at the exact same time everybody else answered sympathetically: “Afraid not...”

They blinked at each other.

“Well, they're real enough in Narnia,” said Leo crossing his arms. “But then, my country is rather special...”

“Narnia?” it was almost a shout, and suddenly everyone was looking at him with huge, bulging eyes. “You come from _Narnia?_ ”

“...Yes?” answered Leo, though it came out like more of a question than a statement.

“Oh _Merlin_!” they cried, eyes lighting up with excitement. “I can't believe it!” - “Narnia!...” - “Stuff of legends, that is...!”

The raven-haired girl – Seanate – was almost bouncing in her seat, blabbing about a paper she did on the topic for extra credit: “...but the source materials are so scarce, oh, I've got so many questions for you!”

The tall black boy – Mark – kept repeating: “Cool! That's, like, cool! How's it like? Bet it's cool to live there...”

Alina clapped her hands and squealed: “Tell us! Tell us! Is it true that all sorts of magical creatures are allowed to live side by side with humans there? Well? Well?”

Her eager questions were counterpointed by the Blishwick brothers' snotty comments: “Our father says it's utterly impossible for a country like that to exist, that no self-respecting wizard would stoop so low...”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” cried Leo laughing, and he raised both hands to stem their enthusiasm a little. At least, he thought, the fracturing of the compartment in factions seemed to have momentarily disappeared in the face of a common interest...

They all quieted, but kept staring at him in various degrees of eagerness and impatience.

Leo took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts and discarding any wording too pompous for his tastes that might slip through.

“Alright. Let's see: yes, Narnia does exist and yes, that's my home country. Seanate, I'll gladly answer all your questions, but maybe we can do it a little at a time, over the year? Mark, Narnia is the best place ever, I'll tell you all about it if you want, but again, some other time, ok? Alina, it's actually more that _humans_ are allowed to live side by side with _magical_ _creatures._ Narnia is, after all, the Land of Narnians and that means Talking Beasts, Naiads and Dryads, Dwarves and Fauns – and Humans, yes, us too, but there aren't all that many of us. Arthur, Claudius, I don't really understand what you're talking about, but I assure you that Narnia _is_ real, and wonderful, and frankly you sound like ignorant Calormen fishers who've never left their village with all this prejudice you spout, you might want to work on that, you know, broaden your horizons a little. Just saying. And anyway, Fauns are _so_ totally real!”

He stopped to draw a deep breath under everybody's disbelieving stare.

It was Hermione, who so far had been surprisingly quiet, to break the silence: “Excuse me, but... are you perhaps... talking about the Narnia in E. Scrubb's books? Are you saying that the place is _actual_? I've read them all and they're wonderful and I never imagined it could be all true, but then I never imagined magic would be true either, but...”

“Oh, you've read Eustace's books?” asked Leo delightedly. “They're fairly accurate I'm told – then again, he's actually been to Narnia and has met and interviewed most of the people he mentions...”

“Seriously?” squealed Seanate, stars in her eyes.

“Eustace? You _know_ the author?” Hermione sighed wistfully: “I wish _I_ knew a writer...!”

Mark's impressed comment: “He's been to Narnia? I thought reaching the place was nigh impossible!” overlapped with Seanate's eager: “Does that mean the adventures he narrates have truly happened?”

“That's right,” smiled Leo. “And, Hermione, I think I can get him to meet you if you want, he's written about coming to visit me now that I'm in England, he doesn't travel a lot now because he says age is catching up to him, but he'll probably make an effort around Christmas.”

“You really think so?”

“Well, he's family after all. Dad and he are cousins...”

“Cousins... wait a second. If the books are accurate like you say, than Mr. Scrubb's cousins are... the Four Monarchs!” Hermione goggled at him.

Leo nodded a bit more reluctantly this time, dreading where this was heading.

“Ooh...” said Seanate, then: “Wait- But... does that mean... are you a _p_ _rince_?”

A babble of comments erupted at Leo's confirmation: “Wow, a Prince! Like, an actual one! It's stuff from fairy tales!”

The gushing nonsense they were suddenly all squealing almost made him groan, if it weren't for the memory of Nanny Melli scolding him ( _“Lords and Princes don't groan or whine or make odd noises in public! Courteous words or else hard blows, thus is the speech of a true Knight!”_ ); Leo couldn't say he hadn't expected the reaction, he'd seen it before after all, but that didn't prevent him from being perplexed by it, and maybe a little bit irritated.

Sure, he was a prince. Sure, he would generally be addressed as 'Your Highness' by anyone except family and very close friends and be treated with deference by his subjects (though since most had known him from birth, it was always mixed with a lot of fond affection and sometimes a good dash of exasperation). Sure, in formal settings he would receive bows and the likes and be expected to dress appropriately and behave all stiff and proper and remember the precedences (especially if there were foreign dignitaries about, lest it resulted in an international incident), and always, always find a gracious and polite word for everyone who was presented to him.

It was a matter of traditions being upheld: at a social gathering where the Royal Family was in attendance, there were a whole host of dos and don'ts that needed to be respected, and while they rarely bothered when it was just family, Leo knew the protocol inside out and was usually at ease with his part in it.

But... but... but.

They weren't in Narnia, for one, nor were they travelling as any sort of official delegation. These children weren't his father's and uncle's and aunt's subjects, they were under no obligation to show deference outside of official settings – far from it! Technically, they were his schoolmates and, while he wore the uniform of a student, his peers. His title wouldn't matter in class, after all.

Did they really have to make a big deal of his station? Bibi, Jill and Ertie had never made such a fuss... they'd never been shy of making eye contact or smiling or teasing him or making him the butt of a joke; he couldn't even remember if Ertie and Bibi had _ever_ bowed or curtsied to him (Jill loved to do it, but he had a strong suspicion that it had more to do with the way her gowns flowed gracefully around her than anything); they certainly didn't have a problem calling him by his first name, or even a nickname!

Seeing the awestricken and nervous looks pointed at him, Leo could only hope that it would be a passing fancy – the excitement of something new and unexpected. Maybe it was his father's teachings about respect meaning little if it wasn't earned, but he wasn't very pleased at their attitude and he prayed it would fade soon and that the rest of the school would not single him out like they were doing.

Besides, he had never truly understood most non-Narnians' take on his status. Being a prince wasn't all that significant. _Great_ , no doubt, but not _important_. Kings and Queens, yes, they were _special_ : they were blessed by Aslan Himself and they were the ones who led and protected the people; but a prince like him was just someone who had the potential of becoming a King one day, or the advisor of a King (like his friend Prince Corin was for his brother, King Cor of Archenland).

Should he have concealed his identity? But that was almost like lying and lying was dishonourable.

Even if their gleeful awe was just temporary, however, it was making him distinctly uncomfortable the way they had subtly moved to isolate and separate him. Out of respect, quite clearly, rather than dislike, but it hurt a little nonetheless, not to mention that the shift was creating yet another division. Upset, Leo reflected darkly that before today he would never have guessed that seven people could be fractured into _so many_ different sub-groups.

One way or another, their reaction was all too in line with what he'd observed so far: the wizarding world was _obsessed_ with divisions.

Leo had noticed it from the first moment he'd stepped foot in Diagon Alley for his school shopping and this train ride was just confirming his direst perceptions of the problem.

Everyone was forever on one side or the other of any given issue; everything was made into a line drawn into metaphorical sand, which instantly became an insurmountable frontier, impossible to pass without momentous consequences.

Wizard raised versus muggle raised – the former despising the latter's ignorance of traditions and customs, the latter mocking the former's backward attitude to progress.

Quidditch fanatics versus Quidditch haters - as if it wasn't possible to enjoy a game without dreaming to be a pro! Leo had been fascinated by the description of the sport, but he had no inclination to try himself; apparently though, you either wanted to live on a broom, or openly despised the whole concept, no in-betweens.

Supporters of the 'subtler magic' versus those who privileged wand-based magic, or seeing it the other way round, those who despised 'foolish wand-waving' versus those who considered most forms of wandless magic, like rituals, as evil.

Everything was a division and what wasn't, would be made into one. Mostly in a completely arbitrary way, such as declaring that if you loved 'brainy sweets' like sugar quills you couldn't enjoy the more hazardous Every Flavour Beans: something he'd been assured of with a rather ridiculous air of utmost authority by the snotty shop boy at Sugarplum's Sweet Shop.

It made Leo distinctly ill at ease.

They were doing it with the topic of Narnia too. First it had been about believing or not believing, then, when he'd confirmed the land was real and given them a reason to reconcile their differences, it had been subtly but surely shifted to what was known about the fabled country and whether the way Narnians did things was right or wrong – which was bringing his discomfort level up with every other sentence, because this was his _home_ they were criticising and they didn't even have the decency to ask him for truthful notions: they seemed to prefer berating each other for credulity while supporting unfounded beliefs themselves.

“Of course it is true!” claimed Seanate authoritatively at one point. “All the books confirm it! Four Thrones – that's what every source says.”

“Well I don't believe it,” retorted Mark. “Not four kings on the same level - I mean, how would that even work?”

Seanate straightened in her seat, voice and posture going in lecture-mode: “Simple. Each monarch has an area of special interest, the northern, southern, eastern and western quadrants of their kingdom. In a way they are like governors of states, each state having sovereignty over its local affairs.”

Vaguely exasperated with her self-importance, Leo tried to point out: “That's not how it works... Besides the Gentle Queen has married... elsewhere; so only three thrones are occupied at the moment...”

Seanate ignored him and went on: “Matters of national import fall under the purview of the High King, who makes all final decisions. The technical term for their arrangement is 'tetrarchy'. It's common knowledge.” The Ravenclaw's tone had grown more and more pedantic and it was really starting to grate on Leo's nerves.

“It's not true,” he reiterated. “High King Peter might hold a position of seniority over all the Kings of Narnia by the grace of the Lion, but that just means that on the rare occasions when the Monarchs are in disagreement and can't come to a good compromise, he has the final word. Believe me, it doesn't happen often. Normally they cooperate for the best of the country...”

Seanate sniffed a little, but seemed to think better of it when she opened her mouth to contradict him.

“So it's not a tetrarchy?” asked Claudius frowning in confusion.

“Of course not, if it were, then they would have four kings, which is ridiculous,” replied his brother dismissively.

“Two kings and two queens,” specified Alina.

“Two Kings and _one_ Queen, at the moment...” sighed Leo.

“Even more ridiculous,” snapped back Arthur.

“But true!” insisted Seanate. “Though I don't understand why they don't crown someone else if what you say is true...” she turned to Leo.

The Narnian prince gave her a blank stare. Just... crown someone at random? That was _not_ how it worked! Once a King or Queen or Narnia, always a King or Queen – which meant, of course, that it took the blessing of Aslan to create one!

“That is odd,” was Claudius' simple comment. “Why would they choose such a form of government? It doesn't seem very practical!”

“I bet it isn't really like that at all,” interjected Mark dismissively. “I bet it's all for show and in reality, just the High King has any kind of power, the rest just have pretty titles to settle them and avoid succession struggles among siblings! Am I right or am I right?” he asked Leo smugly.

Unwilling to be dragged in the debate but unable to let the slur to his father and aunt pass, Leo snapped: “No, you're wrong! They have equal responsibilities towards our people! The cooperation among more Royals is about the fact that no-one should have too much power, and at the same time, no-one should bear the weight of an entire Kingdom on their own!”

“Weight? You talk as if power was a burden!” Arthur stared at him disbelievingly.

Leo just shot him a dirty look.

Anyone who'd known his father before the return of his beloved siblings could attest to how exhausting it was for a single, lone ruler to keep the land safe and happy and prosper – but that wasn't something Leo would ever discuss with virtual strangers whose manners left a lot to be desired.

But his lack of answer went overlooked in the babble of raising voices. Apparently it was suddenly essential to determine whether his father's kingdom was truly a tetrarchy or not, and if it was, why exactly the power was divided among the four monarchs. And once more, quarrelling about it seemed more important than finding out a straight answer!

“There are several theories,” declared Seanate smugly. “Some scholars believe that the country came to exist as the result of four smaller and weaker nations joining forces.”

“Where did they get that idea?” protested Leo. “Narnia's been Narnia since the times of King Frank and Queen Helen, at the beginning of the world!”

“Oh, come on, _Your Highness_ ,” mocked the girl gently. “Since the beginning of the world...! I know that it is a pretty common occurrence for royal families to claim descendancy from mythical or even divine figures, but we're all educated enough to know it's just good politics. No, it is much more rational to deduce the formation of a country from four smaller ones, especially since the theory is supported by the traditional Crowning Ceremony script.”

“That so?” said Leo, rather irritated. “Funny, that. _I_ wasn't even aware there _was_ a Crowning Ceremony script!” The matter was, after all, entirely in the Great Lion's paws. Not that these children seemed to even know of His existence...

“Very funny,” Seanate scowled at him. “There is no need to be so despondent. And the transcript I found in one of my reference books presents to the populace of Narnia, a Queen from the Glittering Eastern Sea, a King from the Deep Western Woods, a Queen from the Warm Southern Sun and a King from the Clear Nothern Skies.”

“...” Leo gave her a flat look. “Ever thought of checking those references?” He did _not_ remember any such presentation and he did know his history, Vitalius, his preceptor, had made sure of it.

“It seems pretty dull, though,” said Alina nonchalantly. “I prefer the other interpretation.”

“There's another interpretation?” asked Leo disbelievingly.

“Oh, yes!” Alina smiled brightly: “One that roots the custom in a division of tasks, so to speak: a King for Wartime, who heads the army and leads his people into battle, First Defender of Narnia, and a King for Peacetime, who deals with diplomacy and the law, High Judge of Narnia; similarly, a Healer Queen and an Administrator Queen. This seemed to be born out in the monarchs' titles: the Magnificent King and Valiant Queen on one side, the Just King and the Gentle Queen on the other.”

“...That's the first I hear of this,” was Leo's only comment, “and those titles only belong to the _current_ monarchs. _And,_ even if they might prefer one strategy over the other, all of Their Majesties can handle everything our country might need them to!”

“It is also possible that both explanations hold elements of truth as they are not incompatible: if, for instance, the northern kingdom was more militarily structured than the southern one...” was Arthur's surprising comment.

Leo gave up.

Inwardly he was scowling at himself: here he was, the son of one of the greatest diplomats ever – everybody recognized the talent of the Just King in that field, even enemies! - and he couldn't even make himself heard _on the matter of his own country!_

He was clearly going about this the wrong way; they weren't truly interested in his words and all he was doing was fuelling their confrontational attitudes.

Though Leo thought with a sigh that if it weren't Narnia, it would be something else. You simply _had_ to belong to one side of an issue, therefore issues were _needed._ There was no other way to exist in this society, not that they knew of or understood.

No wonder they were plagued by civil wars as often as his Mentor had warned him...

To someone raised in the peaceful, agreeable society of Narnia, where people who lived close by were 'good cousins' and foreigners were 'neighbours', the concept was both disconcerting and a little irritating. Could they truly not find some common ground?

From what he could gather, though, it was a very deeply rooted way of viewing the world here: a huge example being the very structure of Hogwarts School.

As soon as he got a chance – seizing an insult to Arthur and Claudius' House as the opportunity to derail the ongoing argument – he quickly started asking questions about the House system and life in Hogwarts in general, playing the 'eager first-year' card. There, at least, he managed to steer the conversation properly, as he'd observed his father do countless times, and he soon got a fairly comprehensive description of how the school worked. The picture his new acquaintances painted in enthusiastic tones however was not a pretty one in his eyes.

The four Houses the school was divided into were constantly at odds with each other, on every issue. Inter-house friendships were almost actively discouraged. The separation was near complete – 'common' rooms were, in fact, restricted to the member of one House and there were no places for the students to meet freely except for a few clubs, which apparently were very House oriented (almost all the members of the Charms Club were Ravencalws, for instance, while the Wizarding Chess Club seldom admitted anyone who wasn't a Slytherin and so on). Even the teachers held fast to the House they'd been in when students and played favourites rather shamelessly.

Leo wondered if it was the same for other adults too, if the stigma of belonging to the House of Braves rather than the House of Smarts or whatnot would haunt someone well into their old age.

Of course, all this knowledge came at a price: namely, the repeated and insistent demands that _Leo_ declare his House affiliation. It didn't even work to point out that he hadn't been Sorted yet: “Oh, but you must have a preference! Come on, tell us! Where would you go, if you could choose?”

As a matter of fact, Leo _didn't_ have a preference.

He'd given the matter a cursory thought – the House of Lions, of course, would be awesome (who doesn't value chivalry and courage?); studying and learning was the entire point of attending a school, so the House of Ravens would be great; ambition, cunning and even ruthlessness were all qualities that a ruler needed in order to protect his people and their best interests, as both his father and his aunt and uncle had showed him day after day, though they should always be tempered by wisdom and mercy (plus, he was curious about 'Snakes', as there were no such creatures in Narnia, Talking ones or not); and if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that no Creature was more loyal, more steadfast, more trustworthy or more kind than a Badger (and that Nanny Melli would walk on clouds if he could tell her that he was living in a 'Sett').

So no, he didn't have a preference.

Unfortunately, the others were incredulous of this and a bit indignant that he wouldn't express a predilection and when he tried to point out that he hadn't grown up with any expectations of House affiliation the way they had, it backfired, as _that_ was turned into yet another argument: was it truly possible not to be biased towards one of the Houses?

But soon after that they reverted to the original Narnia debate, when Alina muttered that “maybe Narnians were so used to the tetrarchy system that they didn't register the obvious hierarchy among the Houses”.

Leo did groan this time, knightly manners be damned, but it's not like anybody paid him any mind. Which, considering he was the only Narnian there, was really rather silly. Did they truly enjoy squaring off over an issue so much that they wilfully disdained any source that could settle the matter easily? Silly question – the answer was before his very eyes.

At least the newly arrived into this fractured society weren't beyond hope: Hermione, who'd tried a few times to express her opinion but had been condescendingly ignored by the older students, finally raised her voice to interject very sensibly: “Why don't you just listen to Prince Leo here? He's _lived_ there, after all!”

They all had the decency to look a little sheepish at that, but Leo was not impressed.

“Yeah, about that...” said Mark pensively from the seat nearest the window, where he'd managed to sprawl despite the lack of space in the cramped compartment. “How come you're coming to Hogwarts, anyway? I don't think there's been another Narnian here, like, ever...”

“Or any royalty either,” specified Claudius, who seemed rather stuck on the point.

“It's tradition for our family to attend a boarding school for a few years,” explained Leo patiently, the way his father had explained it to him – several times, before he'd come to accept it, truth be told, because even if he was happy now, at first the idea of leaving his friends behind hadn't pleased him in the least. “My Dad and his Royal siblings all did, and all in England too, though they chose muggle schools...”

Wrong thing to say: the most deeply rooted division was suddenly brought back to the forefront of everybody's minds. The muggle-raised all made interested and pleased noises, while Claudius gasped in outrage and Arthur snarled: “And why in Morgana's hell?”

Leo blinked, cautious in the face of such hostility. “I guess because magical schools can only be attended upon invitation... You can't just show up and expect to be accepted, after all. Right? Since we're not, in fact, British, we're not on their enrolment lists, are we? As it is, I'm being accepted at Hogwarts only because my Mentor is an old friend of Headmaster Dumbledore.”

It hadn't been easy either, to get notice of Leo's existence to the wizarding school. After all, they didn't know of any 'passages' between worlds – Their Majesties had all confirmed that it had always happened unexpectedly to them; Coriakin had firmly refused to risk building a Portal – playing with interdimensional Rituals was, apparently, too dangerous a business to ever consider; and of course, no-one in Narnia besides the Fallen Star and the Monarchs themselves had any experience of crossing worlds.

In the end, it had been a young, strong-willed Falcon, Nawan, the son of the Head of Diplomacy Rowan, who had volunteered to carry the message, in his own words “trusting Aslan to show him a way”. He had flown off towards the East, his flight bright on the empty sky, and he'd come back to narrate excitedly that he'd simply crossed an unseen boundary at one point, barely noticing if not for the fact that the air suddenly had tasted differently.

Nawan had regaled Leo with the first description of the great lake and fancy castle surrounded by a majestic forest, where he was supposed to spend the next seven years of his life. It comforted the little prince somewhat, that the adventurous Falcon had thought the Hogwarts grounds to have a lot in common with the area of Lantern Waste in Narnia: maybe he wouldn't feel too homesick then.

Thinking of that, Leo found himself wondering once more how the aged Headmaster had received the petition they'd sent. It wasn't everyday you were contacted by someone who you'd met decades earlier in another world, asking you to train a young prince from said other world in the ways of magic!

Unfortunately, Leo hadn't been allowed to attend the debriefing upon Nawan's return, as it was restricted to Their Majesties and the Council, seeing as they needed to discuss the arrangements for Leo's security the school had accepted before confirming or not whether he could go.

Oh, his friends and he had tried, of course, but sneaking in and eavesdropping tends to be pretty hard when you need to fool a Wolf's and a Leopard's noses... They'd been caught in less than no time.

Then they'd had to endure several lectures – from Lady Sigra, about behaviour appropriate to cubs ( _“There is a reason why silly puppies shouldn't join the Hunt until they're old enough to be responsible!”_ ); from Leo's father, about dishonourable actions and the duties of a Just Knight ( _“Breaking and entering! Spying on your Liege! I am so ashamed...”_ ); from Nanny Melli, about not trusting those who loved them ( _“You could have just asked His Majesty! You know he's only thinking of your wellbeing!”_ ); from the High King himself, about the proper way of doing things ( _“You're not supposed to let them catch you!”_ )

So he'd missed the full recounting and when he'd asked Nawan afterwards, the Falcon had pompously stated that he couldn't tell him anything because “it would not do to ridicule the good Professor in front of you, Your Highness, now that he is, to all intents and purposes, your Headmaster.”

Naturally, this had just fuelled Leo's curiosity, but he'd had to resign himself to just imagining the picture in _Hogwarts, A History_ with a dumbfounded expression.

“Hey, Mister Prince?” called out Mark waving a hand in front of Leo's face, jolting him out of his musings. Realizing this wasn't the time for getting sidetracked, he shook himself and quickly concluded: “Well, anyway, my Mentor, my father and my uncle the High King wrote letters to Professor Dumbledore requesting permission for me to attend, and here I am.”

Arthur's scoffing comments about the Headmaster being a barmy old fool and no worth knowing provoked indignant retorts in Mark and Seanate. Yet another front line appeared: pro or against the wise old wizard... Leo's sigh was overshadowed by Hermione's curious: “Leo? Did you say Mentor? Does that mean you've already started studying magic?”

“Well, of course!” exclaimed Leo, surprised. Coriakin had delighted in teaching him and he already had a grounding in most of the Arts, from Illusion to Transformation to the Summoning of energies to the Linking of things into Wholes – and even a smattering of minor but interesting things like weather control and innocuous but showy glamours and above all, _fireworks._

However, at her crestfallen look, he suddenly remembered that Hermione came from a non-magical background and realized she might feel inadequate, so he pretended to be upset: “Aw, you've already forgotten my music! Oh, you cruel you, I'm crushed! Crushed, I tell you! What a tragedy... what a disaster! I'm a failure as a musician!”

“Oh, stop it!” she punched him lightly in the arm, cheeks tinted red with amused embarrassment; but she was no longer mortified, so he smiled with satisfaction.

The rest all laughed too and Alina cheekily told him: “Well, you'll just have to play again and try and make a better impression this time!”

The idea was applauded and Leo obligingly took out his beloved flute once more, launching into a lively tune that engaged them all in an instant.

Truth be told, he didn't mind the chance to lose himself in the music, letting the notes make him soar until he reached a state of freedom where he could truly _think_.

Because he had a lot to think about right now, a lot to consider and evaluate and plot; especially in the light of one of his most treasured and cherished memories ever: the last evening before he left Narnia to come here.

Queen Lucy, in an effort to avoid being sad at her beloved nephew's departure, had declared the absolute necessity of a huge feast to celebrate his bright future as a wizard and there wasn't a soul in Narnia who would deny her, of course.

Thus Cair Paravel was alight with cheerful fires and lively music and the merriment of all who'd gathered to say goodbye to their little Prince, and there had been a great feast, and revelry and dancing, and people laughing and wine flowing and tales told with gay spirit.

Leo had been having fun, dancing with the Dryads and Fauns, watching the Nymphs play juggling tricks with spheres of water (something he never got tired of admiring), playing hide and seek and throwing rings at set-up targets with the numerous cubs and kids who'd been there, when something indefinable had pushed him to leave the merrymaking and slip out into the sweet scented night, unnoticed.

He'd walked leisurely in the orchard, theatre of so many childhood adventures, without really knowing what he was looking for.

And there He had been.

An unmistakeable silhouette, darker against the dark of night. Waiting.

“Well met, Child of Fate,” He'd said and Leo had almost gasped at the deep timbre of that voice, so deep and rich and somehow good and terrible at the same time.

Living in Narnia, he'd grown up on tales of the Great Lion, but this was the first time he'd actually met Him and it was... breathtaking. A part of him wanted to kneel and tremble and never dare to look at Him again, and another part wished he could gaze into those royal, solemn, overwhelming eyes forever.

But Aslan had just bent forward and touched his nose with His tongue and it had made Leo feel as if he was in a long forgotten dream, the kind that is so so beautiful that you remember it all your life and are always wishing you could get into that dream again; and when the soft, silky mane, black in the dark of night, had brushed his cheek, Leo had stopped feeling nervous altogether, remaining only glad and dreamy and quiet inside as if he'd enjoyed a long, happy day in the open.

He's stayed there, breathing in the warmth and love that radiated from the Great Lion, and he couldn't have said how long it was, but it was one of the happiest times of his life.

He'd tentatively run a hand down His warm side, what part of it he could reach, half-expecting to be reprimanded, but Aslan had simply let him and from the low, earthquake-like sound that had come from inside him, Leo might have thought He was purring, if he wasn't too awed to think a Lion could purr. The feeling of surprise and wonder and incredulous joy that had filled him was something that Leo knew he would never experience again, unless he was so lucky as to meet Aslan once more.

He'd wished to prolong the moment forever, but at one point something had simply told him that it was time to let go and despite his reluctance, he'd felt that it was the right thing to do. So he'd gathered his courage and murmured wonderingly: “Why did you call me 'Child of Fate'?”

“That is what you are,” the Lion had answered, “and the time has come for you to choose what to do about it.”

“What does that mean? Sir?”

“Only you can decide that.”

“Well, that's not very useful,” he'd blurted out before biting his tongue, horrified at his disrespect.

“Is that so?” had rumbled the Great Lion. Leo had had the strangest feeling that Aslan was silently laughing at him. He'd scowled half-heartedly, but had soon melted again into the warm fur with a contented sigh.

Whatever it meant, finding out could wait.

“You have an interesting journey ahead of you, Child of Fate,” Aslan had told him. “Full of possibilities. Many, many lives will be influenced by the choices you will make in the coming years.”

“Is – is that so?” had asked Leo, unaccountably nervous.

“Do you feel ready for this responsibility, Child of Fate?”

"I - I don't think I do, Sir," he'd stammered. "I'm only a kid."

"Good," had said Aslan. "If you had felt yourself ready, it would have been a proof that you were not.”

That had confused Leo all the more: “But – but if I'm not... if I...”

“Walk with me, Child of Fate.”

Aslan had got up and padded down a line of apple trees with stately, noiseless paces: and Leo had gone with Him, laying a rather tremulous hand on His mane.

“Do you know what prejudice is, young prince?”

“Hum... an opinion that isn't based on the truth?” he'd tried.

“An opinion that is not based on actual experience of the truth,” had corrected the Lion gently. “There might be cases when a preconceived notion formed with no apparent reason nevertheless matches the truth; however in most cases to trust a prejudice is to avoid seeing the truth for what it is.”

Aslan had sighed: “And once you close your eyes to one portion of the truth, it is easier and easier to blind you to the rest of it; until you can no longer see what is, but only what you tell yourself must be, to make yourself feel better.”

“I- I don't understand, Sir.”

“You will.”

It had been Leo's time to sigh. That didn't sound like a good thing. “Aslan?” he'd asked tentatively. “Is this about me going to the wizarding school?”

“Indeed, Child of Fate.”

“I... will face prejudice there?” he'd guessed.

“Prejudice and preconceptions are the fabric of that world and so entrenched they are, that they have torn apart any trust that could be born of unity and love. And thus, too many are lost to the truth...”

“Do I have to go?” Leo had blurted out unhappily.

The Lion had been silent for a long moment. “No,” He'd said at last, “you do not 'have to'. There is no set path for any of us. It is your choice.”

“But what good can it possibly do if I go?”

“That which divides is evil, yet those people choose division because they believe they can gain from it. Will you do nothing in the face of this?”

“I... no,” he'd said and then he'd repeated more strongly: “No, no, I couldn't let things stand like that – not if I knew there was a chance to stop some evil from happening. If I did nothing it would be like being responsible for that evil!”

“There you have your answer, Child of Fate.”

Aslan had stopped and regarded him with infinite patience. His warm breath had come all round him and Leo had gazed up into the large wise face.

“It will be difficult, won't it?”

“That which is worth fighting for always is.”

“Will you be with me?”

“Always, even when you will not see me.”

Leo had smiled. Before he'd realized it, He was gone – and yet not.

He was, as He had promised, always there, in Leo's heart: even now that the train was slowing down, passing by mountains and forests under a deep purple sky in a world so far from Narnia and so riddled by blind struggles.

Leo brought his tune to an end and taking a deep, satisfied breath, he let his excitement fill his eyes and his smile. He was looking forward to whatever the future might hold in store for him.

Narnia or elsewhere, prince or wizard, it mattered not. He was still Leo, a Knight and a servant of Aslan; and he would do his best for Him under any sun.

 

≈ The End ≈


End file.
